“Who wants me, cook?” he said.
“It’s that Bunny Wrigg, Master Waller, come begging, I suppose, because he knows master’s out.”
With a sigh of relief and the wish at his heart that he could send Godfrey the news at once that there was nothing to fear, the boy went out into the yard, where the big, brown, gipsy-like ne’er-do-well of the place was holding a fine freshly washed turnip in one hand, his knife in the other, busily munching a slice.
“Oh, it’s you, Bunny, is it?”
“Yes, Master Waller; me it is.”
“Where did you get that turnip?”
“Joe Hanson giv’ it me, sir. It’s one of yours, and it’s prime.”
“Joe has no business to give things away when father’s out—not to anybody.”
“Oh, I aren’t anybody, Master Waller,” said the man, with a grin. “I’m nobody, and don’t count.”
“Well, look here; I don’t want to know anything about any strange birds or polecats or owls or hawks or anything. I am busy now. There’s a shilling for you. Be off.”