“Back again!” cried my uncle; and then, casting off all caution, we all pushed forward eagerly, closing in as we went, till we were only separated by a few bushes, so that I could hear the hard breathing on either side. Hard work blundering and stumbling along; but the will was good, and at last we all drew up again in a small opening, panting, hot, and regularly breathed.
“Hist!” whispered my uncle, and we all listened eagerly; but, with the exception of a wild, strange cry some distance off, all was silent.
“What’s that?” I whispered to Browsem.
“Only a howl, sir,” he whispered again. “Blessed rum start this, ain’t it?”
“Bang, bang!” again a hundred yards off.
“Come on!” roared my uncle furiously, “there won’t be a bird left in the place;” and away we dashed again, but only to pull up once more, regularly puzzled.
“’Tain’t no good, sir,” whispered Browsem. “We might go on like this all night, and ketch no one.”
“Why?” I said, mopping my brow.
“That ’ere, sir, as I said was a howl, must ha’ been Munday’s Ghost, and them ’ere shots as we keeps hearing’s the ones as killed the poor fellow, and that’s why the poachers never comes to this bit.”
“Browsem,” puffed my uncle.