THE OUTLAW 121 



of rabbits. But he caught nothing save a 

 mangy stoat, blind in one eye and the other 

 filming over with age. The gins were of 

 no avail. 



The keeper kept fowls in his garden. 

 One day he was sitting in the porch of his 

 cottage, smoking after the midday meal, 

 and ruminating on what the squire had said 

 about giving up the rearing of pheasants. 

 His fowls were strutting and scratching: 

 one had recently produced an egg and was 

 proclaiming the fact with unmelodious 

 insistency. 



There came a hissing as of something 

 falling: an alarmed curse from a hen. 

 The keeper jumped up, swearing at the 

 bluish tumbling of narrow wings that had 

 gone over the hedge. 



One of his fowls was kicking the air 

 spasmodically. There was blood on the 

 path. He picked the hen up it was 

 headless. 



The keeper swore; he knew what had 



