"Fine!" jeered Alf. "And when Mr. Pigott comes out you'll be up the tree safe as dysies, and I'll be on the floor for him to paste!"
"I thart you said he'd gone to Lewes," retorted Ern, unusually alert.
"So he has," replied Alf sourly. "Only I suppose he won't stay there for ever, will he?"
Ern, however, was proof against all the other's logic; and finally the two boys climbed the fence together.
The walnut was a majestic tree, with boughs that dropped almost to the ground, making a splendid pavilion of green.
Ern swarmed the tree. Alf stood at the foot, sheltered by the drooping branches. Thus he could watch the house, while nobody in the house could see anything of him but a pair of meagre black legs.
He was fairly safe and knew it, but even so his heart pattered, he bit his nails continually, and kept a furtive eye on the line of his retreat.
"Hurry!" he kept on calling.
Ern, up aloft, went to work like a man. He tossed the branches to and fro. The ripe walnuts came rattling down. Alf, underneath, gathered rich harvest. He filled his pockets, his cap, his handkerchief. Opening his shirt, he stuffed the brown treasure into his bosom and grew into a portly urchin who rattled when he moved.
"I got nigh a bushel!" he cried keenly. "Throw your coat down, and I'll fill the pockets!"