And here he came once more across his enemy.

For George Westall was now in the far better-paid service of the Court--and a very clever keeper, with designs on the head keeper's post whenever it might be vacant.

In the case of a poacher he had the scent of one of his own hares.

It was known to him in an incredibly short time that that "low caselty fellow Hurd" was attacking "his" game.
Hurd, notwithstanding, was cunning itself, and Westall lay in wait for him in vain.

Meanwhile, all the old hatred between the two men revived.
Hurd drank this winter more than he had ever drunk yet.