"Poachers simly," Stalky replied in the broad Devon that was the
boy's _langue_de_guerre_.

"I'll poach 'em to raights!" He dropped into the funnel-like combe,
which presently began to fill with noises, notably King's voice
crying: "Go on, Sergeant! Leave him alone, you, sir. He is executing
my orders."

"Who'm yeou to give arders here, gingy whiskers? Yeou come up to the
master. Come out o' that wuzzy! [This is to the Sergeant.] Yiss, I
reckon us knows the boys yeou'm after. They've tu long ears an' vuzzy
bellies, an' you nippies they in yeour pockets when they'm dead. Come
on up to master! He'll boy yeou all you're a mind to. Yeou other
folk bide your side fence."

"Explain to the proprietor. You can explain, Sergeant," shouted King.
Evidently the Sergeant had surrendered to the major force.

Beetle lay at full length on the turf behind the Lodge, literally
biting the earth in spasms of joy. Stalky kicked him upright. There
was nothing of levity about Stalky or McTurk save a stray muscle
twitching on the cheek.

They tapped at the Lodge door, where they were always welcome. "Come
yeou right in an' set down, my little dearrs," said the woman.
"They'll niver touch my man. He'll poach 'em to rights. Iss fai!
Fresh berries an' cream. Us Dartymoor folk niver forgit their
friends. But them Bidevor poachers, they've no hem to their garments.
Sugar? My man he've digged a badger for yeou, my dearrs. 'Tis in the