Little John was crouched in the ditch: the dead grasses,
'gicks,' withered vines of bryony, the thistles, and dark shrivelled
fern concealed him.
There was a round black sloe on the blackthorn beside me, the beautiful
gloss, or bloom, on it made it look like a tiny plum. It tasted not only
sour, but seemed to positively fill the mouth with a rough acid.
Overhead light grey clouds, closely packed but not rainy, drifted very
slowly before a N.E. upper current. Occasionally a brief puff of wind
came through the bushes rustling the dead leaves that still remained on
the oaks.
Despite the cold, something of Little John's intense concentration
communicated itself to us: we waited and watched with eager patience.
After a while he got out of the ditch where he had been listening with
his ear close against the bank, and asked me to pass him the ferret-bag.
He took out another ferret and lined it--that is, attached one end of a
long string to its neck, and then sent it in.
He watched which way the ferret turned, and then again placed his head
upon the hard clay to listen. Orion had to come and hold the line, while
he went two or three yards farther down, got into the ditch and once
more listened carefully. 'He be about the middle of the mound you,' he
said to me; he be between you and I. Lor! look out.'
There was a low rumbling sound--I expected to see a rabbit bolt into one
of my nets, I heard Little John moving some leaves, and then he shouted,
'Give I a net, you--quick.
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