"You're right, you are, sir," replied the game-keeper. "He's right,
ain't he, Martin?"
Martin, the landlord, growled. It occurred to me that he regarded the
other with a certain disfavor.
"This 'ere country," continued the game-keeper, vaguely waving his arm
around, "is a blighted spot. A blighted spot, ain't it, Martin?"
Martin growled, whilst the game-keeper studied him covertly.
"Since Sir Burnham went to his long rest these 'ere parts ain't knowed
themselves. I'm tellin' you, sir. Ain't knowed 'emselves. It's all
that quiet, winter and summer alike. The Park all shut up; and the
Park _was_ the Park in them days--warn't it, Martin?"
Martin achieved speech; he removed his pipe, and:
"It were, Hawkins," he concurred.
Silence fell for a minute or two. My new acquaintance, Hawkins, and
Martin both seemed to be pondering upon the degeneracy of Upper
Crossleys, and I could mot help thinking that Hawkins took a secret
delight in it. Then:
"Surely the Park is still occupied by Lady Coverly?" I asked.
"Aye," Hawkins nodded. "She's kep' me on, me and the missus, she has,
like the real lady she is. But things is different; things is wrong.
Ain't they, Martin?" he asked, with a mischievous glance at the stolid
host.
"Things is," agreed Martin.
"Best part of Park be shut up," declared Hawkins. "Horses gone,
carriages gone, everybody gone; only me and my old woman."
"There must be house servants," I interjected.
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