“Just make him a splendid little hutch!” he cried, “Here, come along, Sandy.”
He thrust his hand into the pot, took hold of the ferret, and was about to place it in the box; but it gave a wriggle and writhe, glided out of Mercer’s hand, crept under the corn-bin, and, as he tried to reach it, I saw it run out at the back, and creep down a hole in the floor boards, one evidently made by a rat.
“Oh!” ejaculated Mercer dolefully. “There goes five shillings down that hole. What an unlucky beggar I am!”
“Oh, he’ll soon come out again,” I said.
“Not he; and that’s the worst of you, Burr—you will make the best of things so. He won’t come out—he’ll live down there hunting the rats; and I’m sure now that we shall never get him again, for it is the one Magg used to have, and he has tricked me. I know it by that bit out of its ear. It is his ferret.”
“Well, you haven’t paid him for it,” I said, laughing. “And if he has cheated you, I wouldn’t pay.”
“But I said I would,” replied Mercer, shaking his head; “and one must keep one’s promises, even with cheats. But never mind; old Lom’s got the gloves, and if Magg gives me any of his nonsense, I’ll thrash him, too, eh?”
“Tea!” I cried, for just then the bell began to ring.