The man in the bush imitated the call to such perfection that in a short time he had the satisfaction of seeing six cock bullfinches in the net, which began to present the appearance of an aviary. They were beautiful little creatures, with their blue bullet heads and their scarlet breasts.
They were clothed in red and purple, like the kings of ancient Tyre.
The man gave his rope a sharp tug, and the flaps or wings of the net closed and held them all prisoners.
The poor things beat themselves fiercely against the net, uttering piercing cries, while the call-bird still sung as if in savage triumph from his wire cage.
“Beautiful!” ejaculated the boy. “I call that something like.”
The birds were gathered by the large brown hand of their ensnarer, and with Alf’s assistance they were placed in a large hamper, which formed part of the fowler’s equipage.
“That’s a good haul, ain’t it?” inquired the lad.
“Middling, not so bad. I’ve had better, and a good many worse.”
“Do you happen to know of any nestesses round here?” he inquired.
“I don’t mean the common sorts. D’ye know of a bottletit’s anywhere?”