Sweetheart wanted to know whether that was really a real poacher.
She had read about them. Her ideal poacher was a young, stalwart,
eagle-eyed giant, with a tangle of hair and a disposition toward
assassination. The reality shocked her.
"Anyway," she said, "you frightened the poor old thing. How rough men
are!"
We returned to the landing place with difficulty, for the tide was
still on the ebb, and we got aground more than once. My hands were in
a fine condition when at last I drove that wretched scow into the mud
and lifted Sweetheart out to the firm bank. The evil-eyed old man who
rented us the boat glanced sardonically at my rod and blistered hands,
and I was glad enough to pay him all he asked and break away for the
hotel.
We had an hour to lunch in, pack, and be ready for the trap which
was to bear us to our destination--the distant village of Faöuet, in
Morbihan.