“That isn’t a heron,” he said.
“No. One o’ them long-legged ones—a crane,” said Dave. “Getting straänge and scarce now. Used to be lots of ’em breed here when my grandfather was a boy. Nay, nay, don’t scar’ him,” he cried, checking Dick, who was about to wave his hands. “Niver disturb the birds wi’out you want ’em to eat or sell. Now, then: yonder’s a hare.”
“Where?” cried Tom. “I can’t see it.”
“Over yonder among that dry grass.”
“There isn’t,” said Dick. “I can’t see any hare.”
“Like me to go and catch him, young Tom?”
“Here, I’ll soon see if there’s a hare,” cried Dick; but Dave caught him by the shoulder with a grip of iron, and thrust the pole he carried into the soft bog.
“I didn’t say I was going to run a hare down,” he said. “Theer’s a hare yonder in her form. Shall I go and catch her?”
“Yes,” said Dick, grinning. “Shall I say, ‘Sh!’”
“Nay, if thou’rt going to play tricks, lad, I shall howd my hand. I thowt yow wanted to see me ketch a hare.”