He stopped short suddenly.
“Yah!” he cried, “they ain’t. It’s your larks.”
“You stupid fellow! I tell you they are.”
“Mary Louisas ain’t ripe,” he cried.
“Don’t care; they’ve gone after them. Come, and bring a stick.”
“Fain larks,” he said dubiously.
“Just as if I would play tricks with you!” I cried impatiently.
“No, you wouldn’t, would yer?” he said hoarsely. “Wouldn’t be hard on a chap. Stop a minute.”
He rustled off amongst the straw, and I heard a rattling noise and then a chuckle, and Shock was back to hand me a stick as thick as my finger.
“Hezzles,” he whispered—“nut hezzle. Come along. You go first.”