“She’s got nest too,” said the other, who had been peering into the undergrowth. “Look, nine, ten eggs! That’s good?”
“Yes, but you can’t take them. Never meddle with game eggs.”
“How I make collection if I not take eggs?”
This was pertinent, and Haviland was nonplussed, but only for a moment.
“I’ve got some extra specimens I’ll give you,” he answered. “Come on, leave these, and let the bird come back.”
The other looked somewhat wistfully at the smooth olive-hued eggs lying there temptingly in their shallow bowl of dry leaves and grass. Then he turned away.
“We’ll find plenty of others,” said Haviland. “Last time I was here I took a nest of blackcap’s, and the eggs were quite pink instead of brown. That’s awfully rare. We’ll see if there are any more in the same place.”
Round the cover they went, then across it, then back again, all with a regular system, and soon their collecting boxes were filled—including some good sorts.
“There! Big bird go away up there,” whispered Anthony pointing upward.
They were standing under a clump of dark firs. Over their tops Haviland glimpsed the quick arrowy flight.