His mind was running on this line, when a quarter of a mile from Little Deeping they came upon Tom Cobb leaning over a gate surveying a field of mangel-wurzel with vacant amiability.
Tom Cobb was the one villager they respected; and he and they were very good friends. Carping souls often said that Tom Cobb had never done an honest day’s work in his life. Yet he was the smartest man in the village, the most neatly dressed, always with money in his pocket.
It was common knowledge that his fortunate state arose from his constitutional disability to observe those admirable laws which have been passed for the protection of the English pheasants from all dangers save the small shot of those who have them fed. Tom Cobb waged war, a war of varying fortunes against the sacred bird. Sometimes for a whole season he would sell the victims of the carnage of the war with never a check to his ardor. In another season some prying gamekeeper would surprise him glutting his thirst for blood and gold, and an infuriated bench of magistrates would fine him. The fine was always paid. Tom Cobb was one of those thrifty souls who lay up money against a rainy day.
He turned at the sound of their coming; and he and the Twins greeted one another with smiles of mutual respect. They rode on a few yards; and then the Terror said, “By Jove!” stopped, slipped off his bicycle, and wheeled it back to the gate. Erebus followed him more slowly.
“I’ve been wondering if you’d do me a favor, Tom,” said the Terror. “I’ve always wanted to know how to make a snare. I’ll give you half-a-crown if you’ll teach me.”
Tom Cobb’s clear blue eyes sparkled at the thought of half-a-crown, but he hesitated. He knew the Twins; he knew that with them a little knowledge was a dangerous thing—for others. He foresaw trouble for the sacred bird; he foresaw trouble for his natural foes, the gamekeepers. He did not foresee trouble for the Twins; he knew them. And very distinctly he saw half-a-crown.
He grinned and said slowly, “Yes, Master Terror, I’ll be very ’appy to teach you ’ow to make a snare.”
“Thank you. I’ll come around to-morrow afternoon, about two,” said the Terror gratefully.
“It will be nice to know how to make snares!” cried Erebus happily as they rode on. “I wonder we never thought of it before.”
“We didn’t want a fur stole before,” said the Terror.