“Oast-houses.”
“What?”
“Oast-houses, where they dry the hops over a fire on horse-hair sheets,” said Mercer. “Look! that’s the pigeon-cote,” he continued, pointing to three rows of holes cut in the woodwork which connected the brick towers. “The owl’s nest’s in one of those.”
Just then a middle-aged man, with a very broad smile upon his face, and a fork in his hand, came up.
“Here, Jem,” said the keeper, “the young gentlemen want to see the owl’s nest.”
The smile departed from the man’s face, which he wiped all over with one hand, as he frowned and shook his head.
“Nay, nay,” he said. “The master’s very ’tickler ’bout them howls. Why, if I was to kill one, he’d ’most kill me.”
“The young gents won’t hurt ’em, Jem.”
“Nay, but they’d be wanting to take eggs, or young ones, or suthin’.”
“Well, I should like one egg,” said Mercer.