“Oh, come, that won’t do, lad,” cried Lomax; “that was a cut from the left. I gave you that, my lad, to keep you from shooting me.”
“Pair o’ big cowards, that’s what you are.”
“Cowards, eh?” cried Lomax. “Not much o’ that, Hopley. Two men with sticks against a gang of you fellows with guns. How many were you?”
“Nine on us,” groaned the man. “Oh, my yed, my yed!”
“Nine of you to two honest men. Serve you right. Should have stopped at home and earned an honest living, not come stealing game.”
“What!” cried the man fiercely; “’taren’t stealing; they’re wild birds, and as much our’n as his’n.”
“You’re a donkey,” said Lomax. “Why, there’d be no pheasants if they weren’t reared like chickens.”
“That’s so,” said Hopley.—“Why don’t that gal bring a light?”
“Here she comes,” cried Mercer, for he caught sight of the dim glow of the horn lantern among the trees, and as it came nearer, Bob Hopley said,—
“Hadn’t you young gents better get back to bed? this here aren’t no place for you.”