“How do you know?”
“Little birds out in the woods tells me.”
“Magpies, eh?” I said. “Oh, I know.”
“Then we’ll come,” cried Mercer. “But, I say, let us each have a shot with the little gun.”
“Nay, I’m a gardener, and ain’t got no guns. I meant farreting.”
“But you know I’ve lost the ferret,” cried Mercer. “You can’t go ferreting without ferrets.”
Magglin was standing before us with a curious, furtive smile on his face, and his hands deep down in his pockets, and as Mercer finished speaking, he slowly raised one hand, so that we saw peering out over the top of his jacket pocket the sharp buff hairy head of a ferret, and we both uttered a cry of joy.
“Why, you’ve got one!” said Mercer. “Why—yes—it is. It’s my ferret.”
“Yes,” said Magglin. “I nipped him this morning. He was out running about the loft, and I got hold of him at once. He’s eaten all the rats he could catch, and he was out smelling about, and trying to get into that old corn-bin, so as to have a feed on your stuffed things.”
“Lucky he didn’t,” cried Mercer. “Oh, you are a good chap, and I’ll give you the other shilling as soon as I can.”