“Well, squeal, then, ever so loud, and the louder he squeals, the harder you must rub.”
“But it hurts him.”
“Oh, not much. What’s a hedgehog that he isn’t to be hurt a bit! Boys get hurt pretty tidy here when the Doctor’s cross. Well, as soon as he squeals out, all the hedgehogs who hear him come running to see what’s the matter, and you get as many as you like, and put ’em in a hutch, but you mustn’t keep live things here, only on the sly. I had so many, the Doctor put a stop to all the boys keeping things, rabbits, and white mice, and all. That’s why I stuff.”
“What is?”
“Because you can keep frogs, and jays, and polecats, and snakes, and anything, and they don’t want to be fed.”
“What a nice cottage!” I said suddenly, as we came upon a red-brick, red-tiled place, nearly all over ivy.
“Yes, that’s Polly Hopley’s—and hi! there goes old Hopley.”
A man in a closely fitting cap and brown velveteen jacket, who was going down the road, faced round, took a gun from off his shoulder and placed it under his arm.
He was a big, burly, black-whiskered man, with brown face and dark eyes, and he showed his white teeth as he came slowly to meet us.
“Well, Master Mercer?” he said. “Why ain’t you joggryfing?”