“He’s gone now; wait a minute, and you’ll soon see another. There he is—listen.”
He held up his hand, and I stood all attention, but there was no sound for a few minutes. Then from out of the woods came plainly.
Chop chop, chop chop.
“I can’t see him,” I said. “Some one’s cutting down a tree.”
Mercer burst into a roar of laughter.
“Oh, I say, you are a Cockney!” he cried. “Cutting down a tree! Why, you don’t seem to know anything about the country.”
“Well,” I rejoined rather warmly, “that isn’t my fault. I’ve always lived in London.”
“Among the fogs and blacks. Never mind, you’ll soon learn it all. I did. Wish I could learn my Latin and mathicks half as fast. That isn’t anybody cutting wood; it’s a squirrel.”
“A squirrel?”
“Yes; there he goes. He’s coming this way. You watch him. He’s cross, because he sees us. There, what did I say?”