It be a dull job, bless 'ee, this yer.' The tone,
the look of the man, the dreary winter landscape all so thoroughly
agreed together that a few small silver coins would drop into his hand,
and Luke, with a deep groaning sigh of thankfulness, would bow and
scrape and go back to his 'dull job.'
Luke, indeed, somehow or other was always in favour with the 'quality.'
He was as firmly fixed in his business as if he had been the most clever
courtier. It was not of the least use for any one else to offer to take
the rabbits, even if they would give more money. No, Luke was the trusty
man; Luke, and nobody else, was worthy. So he grovelled on from year to
year, blinking about the place. When some tenant found a gin in the
turnip field, or a wire by the clover, and quietly waited till Luke came
fumbling by and picked up the hare or rabbit, it did not make the
slightest difference though he went straight to the keeper and made a
formal statement.
Luke had an answer always ready: he had not set the wire, but had
stumbled on it unawares, and was going to take it to the keeper; or he
had noticed a colony of rats about, and had put the gin for them. Now,
the same excuse might have been made by any other poacher; the
difference lay in this--that Luke was believed. At all events, such
little trifles were forgotten, and Luke went on as before. He did a good
deal of the ferreting in the hedges outside the woods himself: if he
took home three dozen from the mound and only paid for two dozen, that
scarcely concerned the world at large.
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