“So I will,” said Mercer, “if Mr Hopley shoots one for you.”
“That’s a bargain then,” said the man, rummaging in his pocket, after sticking the fork in the ground. “Here, this way,” he continued, as he drew out a bright key. “Coming, Bob?”
“No, I don’t want to see owls, ’less they’re nailed on my shed door.”
He seated himself on the edge of a great hay-rack, and we followed the farmer’s man through a door into the dark interior of one of the oast-houses, where we looked up to see the light coming in through the opening at the side of the cowl, and then followed Jem up some steps into a broad loft, at one corner of which was a short ladder leading up to a trap-door in the floor overhead.
“Mind your heads, young gents, ceiling’s pretty low.”
We had already found that out by having our caps scraped by a rough beam under which we passed.
“Now then, go up the ladder and push the trap-door open gently, so as not to frighten ’em. Turn the door right over, and let it down by the staple so as it lies on the floor. ’Tain’t dark; plenty o’ light comes through the pigeon-holes.”
“Haven’t you got any pigeons now, Jem Roff?”
“No, nor don’t want none. Up wi’ ye, and let me get back to my work.”
Mercer needed no further invitation, and, followed closely by me, he crossed to the corner where the ladder stood, climbed up, thrust the trap-door over, and disappeared—head—shoulders—body—legs.