So when Parsloe stopped Mr. Meadows and said as he'd got something
to report, the old man hoped he might have a line to help against the
enemy. One or two law-abiding men, Wade among 'em, had been aiding the
keepers by night, and the police had also lent a hand; but as yet nobody
was laid by the heels, nor even suspected. So it looked like stranger men
from down Plymouth way; and the subject was getting on John Meadows'
nerves, because his master, a great sportsman who poured out a lot of
money on his pheasants, didn't like it and was grumbling a good bit.
Then William Parsloe told his tale:
"I was along the Woodman's Path last night working up to the covers," he
said, "and beside Hound's Pool I fell in with a hugeous great dog. 'Twas a
moony night and I couldn't be mistook. 'Twas no common dog I knowed, but
black as sin and near so large as a calf. He didn't make no noise, but
come like a blot of ink down to the pool and put his nose down to drink,
and in another moment I'd have shot the creature, but he scented me, and
then he saw me, as I made to lift my gun, and was off like a streak of
lightning."
John Meadows stared and then he showed a good bit of satisfaction.
"Ah!" he said. "I'm glad as it is one of the younger people seed it, and
not me, or some other old man; because now 'twill be believed. Hound's
Pool, you say?"
Parsloe nodded and Harry Wade asked a question.
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