It was during the autumn of the following year that Mercer and I, who had grown pretty big lads by that time, and had come to be looked up to by the others as captains of the cricket eleven and of the football, were standing at the window looking out over the woods talking, and watching the flickering of the lightning in the far east. We had all come up to our dormitories, but, instead of going at once to bed, we two were talking in a low voice about what a dark, soft night it was, when all at once there was a flash that was not lightning, apparently a short distance away, followed by the report of a gun.
“Oh, Tom!” I cried; “poachers!”
“Hush! Listen!” he said; and hardly had the words left his lips before there was another report, this time without the flash being seen.
“It is poachers,” I said excitedly, “and they’re in Long Spinney. Why, where’s Bob Hopley? They’re clearing off the pheasants.”
We listened, and there was another report, and another, and I was certain that it was in Sir Hawkhurst’s best preserve, where I had seen Bob Hopley feeding the beautiful birds only a week before, and Mercer had come away with me feeling miserable because he could not have one to stuff.
There was another report, and I grew more and more excited.
“Tom,” I whispered, “let’s go down and slip out of the schoolroom window.”
“And go and see. But suppose we’re caught?”
“We shan’t be,” I whispered; “let’s go. I can’t bear to stand still here and listen to those birds being shot. Sir Hawkhurst is so proud of them.”
“I should like to go.”