“Whittrick!” said Tom, running in pursuit of the little animal which crossed their path. “There must be rabbits about here.”
“Yes. Do you know what they call whittricks down south?”
“No.”
“Stoats.”
“How stupid!” said Tom after a vain chase after the snaky-looking little creature. “They must be very silly people down south. Do they call them stoats in London?”
“Haven’t got any in London—only rats.”
The engineer greeted the lads warmly and went up to the temporary hut he occupied to fetch his gun, when, in the corner of the room Dick saw something which made him glance at Tom.
“Yes,” said the engineer, who saw the glance; “we’re going to show your fen-men, Master Dick, that we do not mean to be trifled with. I’ve got muskets; and as the law does not help us, we shall help ourselves. So if anyone intends to come shooting us, blowing up our works, or setting fire to our huts, he had better look out for bullets.”
“But you wouldn’t shoot anyone, Mr Marston?” said Tom.
“Indeed but we would, or any two, sir. It’s a case of self-defence. There, Dick, don’t look at me as if I were a bloodthirsty savage. I have got all these muskets down and shown my men how to use them, and I am letting it be known that we are prepared.”