CHAPTER VII. 



ENCORE MONK. 



ONE Sunday morning I was just dressing to 

 go to chapel, when Jack Monk rushed 

 up, all out of breath, " Are you going to 

 chapel, Wilkins ?" 



"Yes," said I. 



"Then you musn't ; five Debden chaps are 

 coming to your wood, Durrell's, to snare for 

 live pheasants, so you bolt off down there at 

 once, old boy, or else they'll get there before 

 you. Keep dark, you know ; don't let on." 



"All right. Jack." 



"I'm off by another way, so as not to be seen." 



