Dave chuckled and tramped on beside the lads, having enough to do to avoid sinking in.
“She’s reyther juicy this spring, eh? They heven’t dree-ernt her yet,” said Dave with a malicious grin. “See there, now, young Tom Tallington,” he cried, stepping past the lad, and, picking up a couple of eggs in spite of the wailing of their owners, as they came napping close by, the cock bird in his glossy-green spring feathers, and a long pendent tuft hanging down from the back of his head.
“How stupid!” cried Tom. “I didn’t see them.”
“Nay, you wouldn’t,” said Dave, stepping across Dick, who was on his left; “and yow, young squire Dick, didn’t see they two.”
“Yes, I did, Dave, I did,” cried Dick. “I was just going to pick them up.”
“Pick’ em up then,” cried Dave quietly; “where are they then?” Dick looked sharply round him; but there was not an egg to be seen, and he realised that Dave had cheated him, and drawn him into a declaration that was not true.
He was very silent under the laughter of his companions, and felt it all the more.
They went on, the lads sometimes finding an egg or two, but nearly all falling to Dave, who, as if by unerring instinct, went straight to the spots where the nests lay, and secured the spoil.
Now and then a heron flew up, one with a small eel twining about its bill; and more than once a hare went bounding off from its form among the dry last year’s grass.
“We want Hickathrift’s dog here,” cried Dick.