Here, dame, pluck the fowl, will you: drop 'em, Tom."-- And Thomas Acton flung upon the table a couple of fine cock-pheasants.
Roger, Mary, and Grace, who were well accustomed to Ben Burke's eloquent tirades, heard the end of this one with anxiety and silence; for Tom had never done the like before.

Grace was first to expostulate, but was at once cut short by an oath from her brother, whose evident state of high excitement could not brook the semblance of reproof.

Mary Acton's marketing glance was abstractedly fixed upon the actual _corpus delicti_; each fine plump bird, full-plumaged, young-spurred; yes, they were still warm, and would eat tender, so she mechanically began to pluck them; while, as for poor downcast Roger, he remembered, with a conscience-sting that almost made him start, his stolen bit of money in the morning--so, how could he condemn?
He only looked pityingly on Thomas, and sighed from the bottom of his heart.
"Why, what's the matter now ?" roared Ben; "one 'ud think we was bailiffs come to raise the rent, 'stead of son Tom and friendly Ben; hang it, mun, we aint here to cheat you out o' summut--no, not out o' peace o' mind neither; so, if you don't like luck, burn the fowls, or bury 'em, and let brave Tom risk limbo for nothing." "Oh, Ben!" murmured Grace, "why will you lead him astray?
Oh, brother! brother! what have you done ?" she said, sorrowfully.
"Miss Grace,"-- her beauty always awed the poacher, and his rugged Caliban spirit bowed in reverence before her Ariel soul--"I wish I was as good as you, but can't be: don't condemn us, Grace; leastways, first hear me, and then say where's the harm or sin on it.

Twelve hundred head o' game--I heard John Gorse, the keeper, tell it at the Jerry--twelve hundred head were shot at t'other day's battew: Sir John--no blame to him for it--killed a couple o' hundred to his own gun: and though they sent away a coachful, and gave to all who asked, and feasted themselves chuckfull, and fed the cats, and all, still a mound, like a haycock, o' them fine fat fowl, rotted in a mass, and were flung upon the dungpit.
Now, Miss Grace, that ere salt pea-porridge a'n't nice, a'n't wholesome; and, bless your pretty mouth, it ought to feed more sweetly.

Look at Acton, isn't he half-starved.