And after sundry barkings of his shins against the rocks and scratchings of his hands and cheeks by the undergrowth of Hobkin's Hole he rounded the poacher out and delivered his message.
Spurge, blinking at his visitor in the pale light of a guttering candle, shook his head.
"I'll come, guv'nor," he said.

"Of course.

I'll come--and I'll trust to luck to get away, and it don't matter a deal if the luck's agen me--I've done a month in Norcaster before today, and it ain't half a bad rest-cure, if you only take it that way.

But guv'nor--that old lawyer's making a mistake! You didn't ought to have my bit of evidence at this stage.

It's too soon.