Little John now gave up all hope, and only pleaded piteously for his
ferrets. 'Mind as you doan't hit 'em, measter; doant'ee shoot into a
hole, you.' For half an hour we had some really good shooting: then it
began to slacken, and we told him to catch his ferrets and go on to the
next bury. I am not sure that he would not have rebelled outright but
just then a boy came up carrying a basket of provisions, and a large
earthenware jar with a bung cork, full of humming ale. Farmer Willum had
sent this, and the strong liquor quite restored Little John's good
humour. It really was ale--such as is not to be got for money.
The boy said that he had seen Farmer Willum's hereditary enemy, the
keeper, watching us from his side of the boundary, doubtless attracted
by the sound of the firing. He said also that there was a pheasant in a
little copse beside the brook. We sent him out again to reconnoitre: he
returned and repeated that the keeper had gone, and that he thought he
saw him enter the distant fir plantations. So we left the boy to help
Little John at the next bury--a commission that made him grin with
delight, and suited the other very well, since the noisy guns were going
away, and he could use his nets.
We took the lined ferret with us, and started after the pheasant. Just
as we approached the copse, the spaniel gave tongue on the other side of
the hedge.
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