CHAPTER VIII 



IT was during my sojourn at Gloucester that I first made 

 acquaintance with " Dardi-moor," sacred to the memory 

 of Uncle Tom Cobley, and his reprehensible associates, Messrs. 

 Will Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peder Guernsey, Peder Davey, 

 David Whiddon, Harry Hawke, and Jan Pearce's unfortunate 

 " old grey mare," as immortalized by that classic ditty which 

 had its origin in Widdicombe-on-the-Moor. 



I met our party (consisting of The Dads, Irwin, my brother- 

 in-law (Capt. Harry Edwards) and another of the Gill ilk, 

 Gerald to wit) at Taunton Station, en route for the famous 

 moor. 



At that time, my own particular canine shadow (I always 

 had one such inseparable companion) was Cockie (known in 

 the Kennel Club register as "Coxswain"). I have already 

 alluded to this highly intelligent and devoted, but some- 

 what peppery little fox terrier, in another place. I had taught 

 him almost everything that a dog can learn in the way of 

 sport leg timate and otherwise and a truly apt pupil he 

 had proved. 



The Dads had invested some of the superfluous dross 

 which was derived from his profits on The Field newspaper 

 business, in the purchase of several farms on Dartmoor. 

 The why and wherefore of the said investment I have always 

 failed to understand, but my parent was possessed of an 

 uncommon shrewdness and probably had some good and 

 sufficient reasons for supposing that these holdings would, 

 in time, bring a handsome return for his outlay. 



We detrained at Moreton Hampstead. Much to my horror 

 my exuberant parent would insist on our walking to our 

 destination seven weary miles across the moor ; whilst 

 our impedimenta and commissariat were sent on ahead, by van. 



