“Yah!” came back; and as the keeper dropped his gun into the hollow of his arm with a grim smile on his face, there was a loud thwack and a startled, “Oh!” for the tall gentleman had stood still, Magglin had reached him, and a stick fell heavily across the poacher’s shoulders.
“You scoundrel!” he roared, making a snatch at Magglin’s collar, but the man was too slippery. He dropped on his knees, rolled down the slope a few yards, sprang up, and dashed off.
“Don’t matter, Sir Hawkus!” shouted the keeper. “I know my gentleman, and can send him a summons. Now, young gents, you’ve got in for it this time. Bad company’s done for you.”
“Oh, Bob,” whispered Mercer, “let us go this time! let’s run.”
“Nay, here’s Sir Hawkus coming; and here’s some one else too,” he continued, as I saw two figures come trotting up by the way we had reached the slope, to get to us nearly as soon as the tall, stern-looking gentleman.
“Who are these?” he cried. “Boys from the Doctor’s school? You young dogs, you!” he shouted, shaking his cane. “Who are you?”
“Two of our pupils, Sir Hawkhurst,” said Mr Rebble, panting and out of breath. “You wretched boys, has it come to this?”
Mercer looked at the speaker, then at Mr Hasnip’s smoked spectacles, and then at me, as General Sir Hawkhurst Rye from the Hall, a gentleman of whom I had often heard, but whom I had never seen, exclaimed,—
“Well, they are caught red-handed. Rabbits, poaching engines—and what’s that?”
“A ferret, sir,” said Mercer humbly.