Bram Burn. They were all done up in fern leaves, as nice as ninepence, and as freckly as Fred Allen's nose. But Davie had stopped by the way after catching them. A flask and the remains of a loaf told why. 

 "Davie," said Elsie, shaking him; "wake up, man, we have something to ask you!" 

 Davie opened his eyes. He was dazed, not so much at the bright sun and the heather—he was used to that—but at seeing us. And he looked all round about him to take his bearings. 

 "What are you doing so far from home?" he asked, sitting up on his elbow.  "The dominie will thrash you!" 

 "Davie," said Elsie, "did you see Harry Foster this morning?" 

 Davie laughed with a funny chuckle he had, but which sounded awful just then.  "Aye," he said, "I was in his cart, lassie. He gied me a lift to kirk or market—I will not be telling you which!" 

 "Davie," I said, "tell us. This is no joke. Harry Foster is very likely murdered, and all the Queen's mail bags stolen. A lot of money, too, they were sending from the bank in East Dene to the new branch in Bewick." 

 I knew that because I had heard my father say so. 

 Never did I see a man so struck as Davie. His face changed. The smirk went out of it and it got gray, with the blue watery eyes sticking out like gooseberries. 

 "Then if I cannot prove myself innocent," he gasped, "they will hang me!" 

 "But you are innocent?" I asked eagerly. 

 "Ow, aye, I'm innocent enough," he said, "but can I prove it? That's the question. There's a deal of folk, gameys and landlords, that has a pick at poor Davie for the odd snare he sets and the big trout he catches. They'll nail this on him. And I gave Harry two—three flies newly busked," he added hoarsely, "did you hear?..." 

 "Yes," said I, "I saw them. They were stuck in the leather apron." 

 Davie the poacher raised his hand in a discouraged way to his throat, and caressed it, feeling it all over like a doctor. 

 "I'm feared ye are no worth thrippens!" he said. 

 

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