end the season.' Then he lay down again on the heather, raised the glass to his eye, and turned it on the party with the hounds. 'The squire and the passun, of coorse. Wonder if church moosic or hound cry do stir un most. "Everything in its season, Grylls," that would be his answer, and said kindly. He is a good sort, is the passun, and dearly loves a kill. And theere's Doctor Jim, in his white hat. Lor'! he ain't missed the Moor Pool meet for seven-and-thirty year. Iss, seven-and-thirty year, Grylls, and it's seven-and-thirty times you've sat where you're sittin' now to the hour, and wellnigh to the day, and'—counting the notches on his stick—'it's nine otters you've seen killed on the moor. Who can they be with the Doctor? Strainyers, I reckon, stayin' at the big house most like. Ah! theere's Black Geordie, and the keeper, and the landlord, and Tom "Burn the Reed" walkin' with the bailiff hisself as large as life and as brazen as Sally Strout at the christenin'. Well, he's got a face, and no mistake! Wonder how many salmin he's took out this turn.'
Thus he lay and made his comments whilst the party approached Moor Pool, but no sooner did they reach the bank than his demeanour
