94 By Leafy Ways. 



the sky-line a quaint figure on a rough pony beckons 

 us up the slope. It is Bill Mann, best known of 

 Dartmoor worthies. A flash of lightning, that thirty 

 years ago set his little house ablaze, has left him lame ; 

 but he is a true son of the chase for all his lameness, 

 and knows every fox and badger holt in the country 

 side, and every likely pool on the river. Between his 

 toothless gums is his inch of black clay. Round his 

 battered hat are coiled carefully his favourite flies. 

 It is not a bad morning, he says. He has marked 

 down a pack of ' black'ock ' on that rise in front. 



He loosens the dog. After a bound of recognition 

 the setter goes off across the moor at the top of his 

 speed, as if there were no such thing as a blackcock 

 within forty miles. 



All at once, he stops short, stiffened in every limb ; 

 to use old Bill's favourite expression, ' as stiff's a gig.' 

 We advance with firm and eager tread, our minds 

 intent upon the dog. 



There is a rustle among the grass of a little hollow, 

 right under his nose. Up they get, with a great 

 rush, two noble cocks. They are down, right and 

 left. 



The dog just glances at them. His work is not 

 done. There are more yet. Slowly he advances 

 some twenty yards further, his eyes riveted on a 

 great patch of ling in front of him. There they go, 

 a cock and two hens. The hens go by > we give 

 them law. Except by accident, they are never shot. 



