“No one,” said Dick; “so don’t talk about it. The people are getting used to the draining, and father thinks they’ll all settle down quietly now.”
“How long is it since that poor fellow was shot?”
“Don’t talk about it, I tell you,” said Dick angrily. “Three months.”
“No.”
“Nearly.”
Dick was right; nearly three months had gone by since the poor fellow set to keep watch by Mr Marston had been shot dead, and this culmination of the horrors of the opposition had apparently startled his murderers from making farther attempts.
“I tell you what it is,” said Tom, “the man who fired that shot and did all the other mischief has left the country. He dare not stay any longer for fear of being caught.”
“Then it was no one over our side of the fen,” said Dick thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are right. Well, I’m going to have a good long day in the bog to-morrow. It’s wonderfully dry now, and I mean to have a good wander. What time shall you be ready?”
“Can’t go,” said Tom. “I’ve promised to ride with father over to the town.”
“What a pity! Well, never mind; we’ll go again the next day and have a good long day then.”