“Here, my lad, where’s your master?”
“Eh?”
“I say, where’s your master?”
“Aren’t in; mebbe he’s out in the fields.”
Gurr turned away impatiently again, and signing to his men to follow, they all began to tramp up the steep track leading toward the Hoze, with the rabbits scuttling away among the furze, and showing their white cottony tails for a moment as they darted down into their holes.
Dick followed last, shaking his head, and looking very much dissatisfied, or kept on looking back at Jemmy, who stood like a statue, resting his chin upon the shaft of his pitchfork, watching him go away.
“I dunno,” muttered Dick, “and a man can’t be sure. There was nowt to see and nowt to hear, and of course one couldn’t smell it, but seems to me as that ugly-looking fisherman chap knows where our Mr Raystoke is. Yah, I hates half-bred uns! If a man’s a labourer, let him be a labourer; and if he’s a fisherman, let him be a fisherman. Man can’t be two things, and it looks queer.”
An argument which did not have much force when self-applied, for Dick suddenly recollected that he was very skilful with the scissors, and knew that he was the regular barber of the crew, and as this came to his mind he took off his cap and gave his head a vicious scratch.
“Never mind the rabbits, lads,” cried Gurr angrily; “we want to find Mr Raystoke.”
The men closed up together, and mastered their desire to go hunting, to make a change from the salt beef and pork fare, and soon after they came suddenly upon Sir Risdon and his lady, the latter, who looked weak and ill, leaning on her husband’s arm.