“I was expecting to hear some one shout after us every minute,” he cried, as we now hurried steadily along. “Oh dear, how you do fancy things at a time like this!”
The evening was now delightful, and the fresh, sweet scent of the grass we crushed beneath our feet was supplemented every now and then by that of the abundant field camomile.
“Look out!” said Mercer; “there he goes. Isn’t he early? I say, I wonder whether that’s one of old Dawson’s owls.”
For, as we passed along by the edge of the wood, a great white-breasted bird flew by, and went softly along by the side of the trees, till it disappeared far ahead.
“There’s a rabbit,” I said, as I caught sight of the white tuft of fur which so often betrays the presence of the little creatures, and directly after a sharp rap, rap—the warning given by them of danger—was heard ahead, and a dozen ran rushing out of the field into the shelter of the wood.
“Look at them, how they swarm!” cried Mercer. “Why we might catch a hundred, and no one would be a bit the worse for it. Here, make haste, or I shall be shouting at them, and we ought to be quiet now.”
“Close there, aren’t we?” I said.
“Yes; just through that next patch, and we shall be there.”
“And suppose Magg hasn’t come?”
“Why, we’ll catch some without him.”