“Go on, then,” said Dick, laughing; “we won’t move.”
Dave chuckled, swung his basket behind him as if hung by a strip of cow-hide over his shoulder, and walked quietly on, in and out among the tufts of heather and moss, for some five-and-twenty yards.
“He’s laughing at us,” said Dick.
“No, he isn’t. I’ve heard Hickathrift say he can catch hares,” replied Tom. “Look!”
For just then they saw Dave go straight up to a tuft of dry grass, stoop down and pick up a hare by its ears, and place it on his left arm.
The boys ran up excitedly.
“Why, Dave, I didn’t think you could do it!” cried Dick.
“Dessay not,” replied the decoy-man, uttering his unpleasant laugh. “Theer, she’s a beauty, isn’t she?”
The hare struggled for a moment or two, and then crouched down in the man’s arm, with its heart throbbing and great eyes staring round at its captors.
“Kill it, Dave, kill it,” cried Tom.