Slow as his pace was, the distance between the prints of the big boots was great, and the mushroom hunting took him, before very long, up the cliff beyond the entrance to the old quarry, then down below it, and then close up alongside, where he stooped over, and then went down a few steps out of sight.
He did not turn his head, for his lobster eyes had convinced him that no one was in sight, and, as he disappeared in the deep hole, he pounced upon the basket, and then went softly and quickly down to where the loose tile stones lay.
A rapid examination satisfied him that they had not been moved, and he went softly up again, basket in hand, stood still and rolled his eyes, but saw no sign of the basket’s owner, and then, thrusting his arm through the handle, he went steadily back to the farm, where he thrust his head in at the door, stared at Farmer Shackle, who was innocently mending a net, and backed out and went into the rough stable.
Shackle followed him, net in one hand, wooden netting-needle in the other.
“Hullo!” he said.
Jemmy held out the basket.
“Well, I see brambrys and masheroons. What of ’em?”
“Little missus’s basket. Fun’ it.”
“Take it home. No—I’ll send Ramillies. Ladyship don’t like to see you.”
“Fun’ it in number one!”