He was a tall, handsome
chap tanned by the foreign sun where he'd lived and worked too.
"What of it, master?" he said.
"This of it," answered Meadows. "Bill Parsloe have seen the Hound and no
less. And the Hound ain't no mortal dog at all, but he was once a mortal
man and the tale be old history now, yet none the less true for that. My
father, as worked here before me, saw him thrice, and his highest good
came to him after; and Benny Price, a woodman, saw him once ten year ago,
and good likewise came to him, for Mrs. Price ran away with a baker's
apprentice at Buckfastleigh and was never heard of again. And since you've
seen the Hound, Parsloe, I hope good will come to you."
Neither of t'other men had heard the tale and Harry Wade was very
interested, because he minded that, when a nipper, his mother had told him
something about it. And Parsloe, who was pretty well educated and a very
sharp man, felt inclined to doubt he hadn't seen a baggering poacher's
mongrel; but old John wouldn't tell 'em then. He was a stickler for his
job and never wasted no time gossiping in working hours.
"'Tis too long to unfold now," he said, "because Bill and me have got to
be about our duty; but if you'll drop in o' Sunday and drink a dish of
tea, Wade, you can hear the truth of the Hound; and you can look in on
your way to work, Bill, and hear likewise if you've a mind to it.
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