After a few minutes there came a faint whip at their own window-pane, and Trevelyan took in a scrap of paper weighted with a bull's-eye. Seeing there was some writing on it, he struck a match, and read:
You've bagged the biggest half.
Send us some salt.
Please return bull's-eye.
Where's our leg?
In answer Cadbury screwed up a pinch of salt, and scribbled on the paper:
Ask the cat.
Mind you don't leave your bones about.
Needless to say, the bull's-eye was not returned.
The packet was tossed on to the neighbouring sill, and then they settled down to enjoy their meal in peace. It was well that there was not overmuch light, for they could not consume it elegantly. As a matter of fact, they gnawed it in an ogreish fashion, and in such haste that they could scarcely stop to plunge their bones into the salt for a flavouring.
"I suppose you're quite sure this is chicken, Cadbury?" said Vickers presently.
"Quite. Why do you ask?" mumbled Cadbury.
"It struck me as being rather—well, a trifle gamy, nothing more."
"Pretend it's pheasant, then," said Cadbury.