“What!”
“See her going along there with that dog. She must ha’ smelled him out.”
“Place been opened?”
“No.”
Farmer Shackle scratched his nose on both sides with the netting-needle; then he poked his red worsted cap a little on one side with the same implement, and scratched the top of his head, and carefully arranged the red cap again.
“Mayn’t have seen or heard anything, lad.”
“Must, or wouldn’t have left the basket.”
“Right. Have big Tom Dunley, Badstock and two more, and be yonder at dark. Ramillies know?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t tell him. He’s waiting yonder for you. Here he comes. Go on just as usual, and don’t tell him nothing. I’ll meet you soon as it’s dark.”