There was a sharp rustling sound as of men forcing their way downward on each side of the gully, and the next minute, as the place grew lighter, consequent upon the trees being absent for a space of about, a dozen yards, there was the sharp whiz as of some great beetle darting across, followed by the report of a gun, which was magnified by echoes which died away into the distance.
“Forward!” cried Roberts. “Steady! don’t make a stampede of it. Keep to all the cover you can.”
Necessary advice, for the whiz of a second roughly-made bullet, seeking but not finding its billet, was heard, followed by a smothered report.
“I say, this is nice,” said Drummond: “and you two seem to be right. I don’t like it at all.”
“Well, it’s not pleasant,” said Roberts, smiling.
“Pleasant? No. These people may not mean war, but only sport. They’re beating this part of the valley.”
“And routing us up,” said Drummond, “as if we were pheasants. I say; I wonder whether pheasants feel the same as I do when they’re beginning to be driven to the end of a spinney?”
“Don’t know,” said Roberts shortly; “but I’m glad we came.”
“Oh! are you?” said Drummond. “Well, I’m not. A little of this sniping goes a very long way with me.”
“Ditto,” said Roberts shortly. Then, aloud, “How are you getting on there, my lads?”