“Then, how do you know he was here?”
“Because nobody else wouldn’t—”
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Well, you see, Master Fred, it was like this here. I was a-stooping over the bed, tidying up the edge o’ the grass, when—whop!”
“What, did he hit you, Nat!” said the boy, grinning.
“Well, sir, he did and he didn’t, if you can understand that.”
“No, I can’t. What do you mean?”
“This here fox-whelp come and hit me side o’ the head, and it must ha’ been him as throwed it; and that made me know as he was at home.”
As the man spoke, he took a cider apple from his pocket, a hard, green, three-parts-grown specimen of the fruit, and involuntarily began to rub the place where he had been struck.
“Yes; that looks as if he was at home, Nat,” said the boy, showing his white teeth.