"Oh, ah! Well--there's some likes a bit o' danger."

"Danger?" I echoed. "To what danger do you refer?"

He surveyed me with cunning, old rheumy eyes, and:

"What about man-traps?" he inquired. "Ain't man-traps dangerous? And
what about shot-guns? Shot-guns can make a party feel sick, can't
they? Oh, ah!"

"But," I exclaimed, "you surely don't mean that there are traps laid
in the grounds of the Park? It isn't legal. And why should any one
shoot at visitors?"

"Maybe 'cause they're told to," he shouted. "Aye--that's the reason as
like as not; 'cause they're told to."

"Who are 'they'?"

"Old Gipsy Hawkins as used to be Sir Burnham's under-keeper. What's he
doin' of up there at Park all day? Layin' traps and such--that's what
he's doin' of. My son Jim knows it, he do. My son Jim found one of
'em--and left best part of a pair of trousers in it, too!"

These statements if true would seem to cast an unpleasant sidelight
upon the character of my acquaintance of the Abbey Inn. I wondered if
the "Jim" referred to was that "young Jim Corder" whose name seemed
to be a standing joke with the man Hawkins (I learned later that it
was so). And I wondered if Martin's mysterious references to certain
patrons, whose patronage had damaged his business, might not have