“No, of course, not,” said Dick. “Kill ’em all at one shot, Dave?”
The man made no answer, but his little dog uttered another short bark as if in assent.
“Wish I’d been there,” said Dick, and the dog barked once more, after which the new-comer seemed to go off like a piece of machinery, for he made a sound like the word “kitch,” threw the bunch of birds to the wheelwright, who caught them, and dropped them in through the open window of the workshop on to his bench, while Dave jerked his gun off his shoulder, and let the butt fall between his feet.
Just then the wheelwright roared out, with one hand to his cheek:
“Sair—rah! Ale. Here you, Jake, go and fetch it.”
The short thickset lad of nineteen, who now came from behind the house with a fagot of wood, threw it down, and went in, to come back in a few moments with a large brown jug, at the top of which was some froth, which the wind blew off as the vessel was handed to the wheelwright.
“She’s about ready now,” said the latter. “You may as well lend a hand, Dave.”
As he spoke, he held out the jug to the donor of the birds, who only nodded, and said, as if he had gone off again, “Drink;” and propping the gun up against the crippled cart, he took off his rough jacket and hung it over the muzzle.
In kindly obedience to the uttered command, the big wheelwright raised the brown vessel, and took a long draught, while Dave, after hanging up his jacket, stood and looked on, deeply interested apparently, watching the action of the drinker’s throat as the ale went down.
Jacob, the wheelwright’s ’prentice, looked at the ale-jug with one eye and went on placing a piece of wood here and another there to keep up the blaze, while Dick went and leaned up against the cart by the gun.