The grievance uttered by Lovey Lee against those who settled upon Dartmoor and appropriated to particular uses that ancient domain, was widespread a hundred years ago, and is alive to-day. Aforetime some five-and-thirty ancient Forest Tenements were held as customary freeholds, or copyholds, from the Manor of Lydford independent of the Duchy, and these venerable homesteads shall be found scattered in the most secluded and salubrious regions of the Moor. Of these, however, the Duchy has now secured more than half, and it will probably acquire the remainder in process of time. But a different sort of farm sprang up on every side a century since; "newtake" tenements appeared; and Maurice Malherb now proposed to create another such in the virgin valley of Fox Tor. These constant enclosures have been a source of discontent upon Dartmoor for many generations, and the peasants protest with reason, for theirs is the unalienable right to this great waste, and every acre fenced off against their sheep and cattle is a defiance of ancient charters and a robbery of the poor. The cry was old before Tudor times, and you shall read in Henry VI. (Part 2) how the Second Peter, representing his fellow-townsmen, petitions "against the Duke of Suffolk, for enclosing the commons of Melford."

And so it happened that Malherb\'s advent made him more enemies than friends in the border villages and among the scattered homesteads of the Moor.

A little knot of grumblers were met together at the "Saracen\'s Head," near Prince Town—a modest tavern long since superseded by the present famous hostelry at Two Bridges. This party now aired its wrongs, and albeit no man amongst them had ever set eyes upon Malherb, all spoke an evil word against him, and each man could report some sinister story gleaned from another. It appeared certain upon these rumours that the new "squatter" was a hard and rapacious rascal.

"The place will be finished home to the roof next year," said a thin, straight man with a long beard and a face so hidden in hair that little more than his nose and eyes protruded from it. "Fox Tor Farm \'twill be named, an\' Lovey Lee, up to Siward\'s Cross, have said as she\'ll bewitch him from the day he enters the house."

"Somebody did ought to tell the Prince Regent," murmured a very old man who sat by the fire. "He don\'t know about these here goings on, an\' how Duchy fills his pockets with gold stolen from our pockets. This place was given to us in the early ages of the earth, an\' if the Prince knowed the rights of it, he wouldn\'t take the money."

"What be Duchy, Uncle Smallridge?" inquired a weak-eyed youth with flaxen hair and fluffy, corn-coloured down about his cheeks and chin. "For my part I can\'t grasp hold of it. Be it a live thing as you might say?"

The old man addressed as Uncle Smallridge laughed and spat into the fire.

"Duchy\'s alive enough; yet \'tis wasting wind to cuss it an\' breath to talk against it. \'Tis alive, but it can\'t be hurled; it have ears, but it be deaf to the likes of us. It laughs at us, but we never hear the laughter."

"An\' it\'s got a deep pocket," said the hairy man. "What say you, neighbour Woodman?"

"I say, \'tis a monster," answered another speaker. "\'Tis the invention of the Devil to breed anger an\' evil thoughts in us. Here be I, Harvey Woodman of Huccaby, son of Harvey Woodman of Huccaby, grandson of Harvey Woodman of Huccaby, great-grandson of Harvey Woodman of Huccaby; an\' I tell you that the vexations of the Duchy have so lighted \'pon my family from generation to generation, that it has got in our blood an\' we stand to it same as mankind in the Bible do stand to the seed of the serpent."

"Maybe—with a difference, Harvey," answered Uncle Smallridge. "Duchy\'ll bruise your head for you, an\' your son\'s head, same as it did your forbears, but you won\'t bruise its heel; for why? It haven\'t got no heel to bruise."

"\'Tis a wicked whole made up of decent bits," declared the hairy man, whose name was Richard Beer. "The gents as stand for Duchy, take \'em one by one, be human men same as us; but when they meets together, the Devil\'s in the chair every time. An\' now another two hundred acres gone, an\' all that butivul stroll for cattle beyond Fox Tor Mire walled off against my heifers an\' yours."

"I hate the chap afore I see him. He\'ve got a wicked-sounding name," said Thomas Putt, the youth with weak eyes.

"If we was men instead of mice, we\'d rise up an\' show Duchy that right\'s right, and that its ways be the ways of a knave," said Harvey Woodman. Then he shook his bull neck and drank deep.

"Supposing us all had your great courage, no doubt something would be done," answered Beer. "What you say be true; but we spend our indignation in words an\' leave none for deeds."

"Where there\'s smoke there\'s fire," declared the ancient by the hearth. "If I was a younger man I\'d lead you forth against Duchy an\' be the fust to heave down they walls rising up-along—ay, an\' call upon the God o\' Justice to lend His A\'mighty Hand."

"Which He wouldn\'t do; for there ban\'t no miracles now, Uncle Smallridge," said Thomas Putt.

"Ban\'t there? I think there be, else you\'d be shut up, Tom, an\' not roaming free."

This allusion made the company laugh, for, despite his slim shape and peering eyes, Tom Putt was a daring poacher—one of Izaac Walton\'s wicked but most skilful disciples. He killed many a salmon, and he shot many a partridge intended for a nobler destiny than slaughter at his hand.

A stranger entered the bar of the "Saracen\'s Head" at this moment. The man shook the wet from his coat, went to the fire, and ordered a glass of hot brandy and water.

"Nice plum weather still, your honour," said Uncle Smallridge, as he made his way from the blaze. "The sun have been drawing up the autumn rains these many days, but winter\'s here at last. The water will all come home again in snow."

"Wet enough," said the other. "I marvel your grass here doesn\'t rot in the ground."

"An\' so it do in some places," answered Richard Beer; "as if it wasn\'t hard enough to get a living for the dumb things without walling the Moor off against the rightful owners. Come presently there won\'t be a bit of sweet grazing us can call our own. Now here\'s this Mr. Malherb—a foreigner from down Exeter way—bitten off a few more hundred acres of the best."

"Who says any ill of him?" asked the stranger.

"\'Tis only hearsay," declared Woodman. "There may be good in him; but I wish he\'d bided away."

"Lord knows I wouldn\'t speak no malice against the gentleman," continued Beer, "for I am going to ax him to give me work. He wants a few understanding chaps, \'tis said. An\' I know the Moor better\'n my Bible, more shame to me. You\'ll bear me out, neighbours, that I can get what man may from Dartymoor soil?"

"You\'m very witty at it, us all knows," admitted Harvey Woodman.

"How would you tackle those wet slopes under Fox Tor?" asked the new-comer.

"Well," answered Beer, "drain, drain, drain an\' graze, graze, graze; an\' leave the natural herbage as much as you may. You won\'t better it."

The stranger laughed.

"If Maurice Malherb can\'t improve upon Nature on Dartmoor, \'tis pity," he declared.

But Richard Beer shook his head.

"You\'ve got to follow in these parts, not lead. Nature do know her own business; an\' you can\'t teach her, for her won\'t larn. Farming be a sort of coaxing her to your way o\' thinking. There\'s two sorts o\' stuff the place be made of: peaty moor, as\'ll yield good grass; an\' swamp, as be useful to nought but a frog. This here Mr. Malherb must drain, an\' pare, an\' burn in reason; but he must not overdo it."

"Mind you, the natural things have their value," put in old Smallridge. "French furze at four years\' growth do fetch a pound an acre. An\' if the land be fatted properly the man might grow potatoes."

"Potatoes do eat up all afore you eat them," said Beer; "though the appleing of \'em do keep the earth sweet an\' mellow. Then he\'ll follow with barley, not wheat."

"As to the chances of corn?" asked the stranger. His wet coat smoked and sent up a fire-lit steam in the darkening chamber.

"Corn\'s a ticklish business, master," replied Beer. "Yet \'tis to be done if you\'ll bring your soil to a husband-like tilth an\' not spare lime. Burn clean, plough, an\' dress as generously as your pocket will stand. Then spread fresh mould afore the seed earth. Earth must be fetched, for you\'ve got to remember there\'s none there. Then sow your wheat—ten pecks to the acre—harrow in, strike out the furrows, and pray God for eighteen bushels to the acre. He can do it an\' He\'s a minded. Next year the man must refresh his stubble, plough, sow, hack in, an\' hope for ten or twelve bushels. Then turnips must follow—not broadcast like our fathers sowed \'em—for that\'s to spread a table for the fly, but the two-furrow way. Then the land must have three years\' fallow; an\' that\'s the whole law an\' the prophets about it, so far as I know anything."

"In my youth," said Uncle Smallridge, "when the world was awful backward at farming, us growed nought but rye; an\' a fool here an\' there do still cling to his fathers\' coat-tails an\' go on growing it. But not one in the forefront of the day, like Dick Beer."

"All the same," concluded Mr. Beer, "the gentleman\'s best stand-by will be beasts, like the rest of us. It don\'t pay trying to tame Dartmoor—he\'ll soon find that out, despite all the talk of Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt an\' such-like great men."

"And you want work?" asked the listener.

"So I do. I\'m ready to try an\' make a fortune for anybody."

"Why are you out of employment?"

"My last master have gived up," confessed the labourer.

"Did you make his fortune?"

"To be plain, he was very unlucky. I couldn\'t help him. Nobody couldn\'t. He was overlooked, I reckon. The evil eye was upon him."

"Ah!—Well, Maurice Malherb is not frightened of the evil eye. What wages do you get?"

"Nought to trumpet about. Seven shilling a week—\'tis the usual wage, but pinching. My wife be good for two shilling. So us do very well—thanks to God, who didn\'t send no childer."

"I\'ll give you ten shillings a week."

"You! Who be you, master?\'

"I am Maurice Malherb, of Fox Tor Farm. Work must begin in a month. I\'m looking round me. My head man comes up presently. But he doesn\'t know Dartmoor. You appear to do so. Provided your credentials and character are good, I\'ll engage you on trial."

"Aw jimmery! this be great news. Ten shilling a week!"

"My workpeople will be the marrow of my farm. I know that very well."

"You\'d do wise to take his wife along with him, your honour," said Uncle Smallridge. "Such a dairymaid ban\'t often met with. Fifteen cows she\'ve been known to tackle with no more than help in the milking. That\'s three more\'n any other woman I\'ve ever heard about."

"\'Tis true, your honour," declared Richard Beer; "though my own wife, \'tis true. There be some as would rob the hearse an\' chase the driver—such be always crying out for help in their work; but my Dinah\'s different. A towser for work; an\' her temper pretty near so sweet as the cream she makes."

"She shall come," answered Mr. Malherb. "My lady has the usual pin-money," he continued. "The poultry, pigs, and dairy produce accrue to her; and out of it she keeps the house, save in bread and green stuff. She will need a good dairymaid who can go to market."

"An\' if there\'s any more men you want, Woodman here be a masterpiece at ploughing an\' wall-building an\' handling stone in general, ban\'t you, Harvey?" asked Mr. Beer, solicitous for his friend.

"Yes, I be," said Mr. Woodman. "Us was somebody in the land once, but now I\'ve only got a little old cottage left at Huccaby, though in the past my people owned the farm there an\' scores an\' scores of acres. But us have gone down. I\'ll come if you want me; an\' my son be a very handy lad. I live by cutting peat an\' building walls an\' such like; but \'tis a poor business, an\' I\'d gladly go over to you, master, if you\'ll give me a trial."

"An do, please your honour, find me a job," cried Thomas Putt. "I wouldn\'t be so bold an\' \'dashus as to ax for a shilling a day; but, afore God, I\'ll do great deeds for ninepence!"

"An\' what great deeds can you do?" asked Malherb. "You should go to a physician for your eyes."

"They be only pink-rimmed, your worship," explained the owner. "They\'m diamonds for seeing with—\'specially by night."

"Putt be a very good man if he\'s got a better to watch him, ban\'t you, Thomas?" asked Mr. Beer, and the poacher admitted it.

"\'Tis so," he confessed frankly. "I can\'t stand to work if I know there ban\'t no eye upon me. \'Tis my nature."

"Not but what you\'ve got your vartues," added Beer kindly. "An\' come his honour wants a salmon, or a woodcock, or a fat hare, he can\'t do better than go to you for it."

Mr. Malherb enjoyed this subject.

"I\'m a sportsman myself, my lads. I love every bit of sporting—gun, horse, hound, and rod. You shall have your chance, Tom; but no poaching, mind, or it\'s all up with you. Now I shall want but two more men and one more woman and my household will be complete."

As he spoke a figure crawled out from a corner. No word had he spoken either before or since Malherb\'s arrival, but now this singular man approached, pulled his hair, and addressed the new power. He looked almost a dwarf, but his head was of normal size, and his expression betokened character. The labourer had seen sixty years. He was quite bald and as wrinkled as an old russet apple. His costume differed much from that of the company, for it seemed that he was chiefly clad in the pelts of vermin. A martin\'s skin furnished his cap, and at its side glimmered the sky-blue wing-feathers of a jay; his coat was green corduroy, but his waistcoat was made of moleskins, and he had a white one on each side for the pocket-lappet.

"I be Leaman Cloberry, coney-catcher an\' mole-catcher," he said. "No man can teel a trap like me."

"I shan\'t want a coney-catcher," declared Malherb.

"Not regular, not regular; but off an\' on, when the varmints get too free. There\'s other things, too. There\'s grays—or badgers, as you\'d call \'em; there\'s pole-cats, an\' martin-cats, an\' hawks, an\' owls, not to name foxes."

"Foxes?" said Malherb, frowning.

"Plenty of \'em; an\' I gets six-an\'-eightpence for a fox. You\'ll always find \'em hanging up on the yew tree in the churchyard, so that all the parish on its way to worship \'pon Sundays may see I earn my money."

"Kill foxes?"

"All varmints, your honour—from a hoop[*] to a hedge-pig."


[*] Hoop: A bullfinch.


"The man who kills foxes will never earn a shilling from me," thundered Malherb. "Out of my sight, you old miscreant! Kill foxes! What is Tyrwhitt about? I\'d hang you to the church yew yourself if I had my way. Honest foxes to be killed by a clown!"

Leaman Cloberry regarded the angry settler without flinching.

"If you\'re that sort, your people be likely to have uneasy dreams," he said. "As to foxes, there\'ll be plenty for you an\' the likes of you to run after on horseback—no need to fear that. I\'ve killed but ten dogs an\' two vixens in cub this year. I lay you\'ll meet more foxes around your hen-roosts up-along than you\'ll find time to hunt. Then you\'ll be sorry you growed so fiery against me."

"Get you gone, you mouldy rascal! Go to your vermin and foul the air no more."

The mole-catcher smiled and put on his hat.

"I\'ll go," he said, "since you be too great a man to breathe alongside of me. Good evening to your honour; an\' my duty to you."

Then he made his exit, singing:

"A ha\'penny for a rook;
    A penny for a jay;
A noble for a fox;
    An\' twelvepence for a gray!"


It was the tariff of his trade, and he sang the words aloud at all seasons and in all company.

Nobody spoke after Malherb\'s explosion; but a moment afterwards he grew calm again, finished his liquor, and prepared to depart.

"Come with your papers on Monday week to Tor Royal. And now drink success to Fox Tor Farm, and when next you hear of Maurice Malherb, remember that the devil is not so black as he is painted."

He flung half a crown upon the counter and went his way, while the men in eager concert cried, "So us will, your honour!" "Long life an\' fortune to your honour!" and "Good luck to Fox Tor Farm!"

When Malherb was gone they discussed the matter, and no emotion but a very active interest marked their attitude.

"Dartymoor\'ll soon larn him not to fling half-crowns about," said Uncle Smallridge.

"Ten shilling a week!" mused Richard Beer. "He must be made of money."

"More likely soft in his head," answered a woman behind the bar.