Tom gave him a quick look and said nothing, but thought a good deal.
Sam noticed the look, and naturally divined his cousin’s thoughts.
“Oh,” he said, “if you want to get on in the world, it’s of no use to give yourself away. I say, who is that joskin?”
“Pete Warboys, half gipsy sort of fellow. I’ve seen him poaching. Look here, this is a wire to catch hares or rabbits with.”
Tom took out the wire noose, and held it out to his cousin.
“How do you know? that wouldn’t catch a hare.”
“It would. The gardener showed me once with a bit of string. Look here; they drive a peg into the ground if there isn’t a furze stump handy, tie the string to it, and open the wire, so as to make a ring, and set it in a hare’s run.”
“What do you mean—its hole in the ground?”
“Hares don’t make holes in ground, but run through the same openings in hedges or amongst the furze and heath. You can see where they have beaten the grass and stuff down. Then the poachers put the wire ring upright, the hares run through, and drag the noose tight, and the more they struggle, the faster they are.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it? I never lived in the country. Here, catch hold. No, Stop; let’s set it, and try and catch one.”