“Right away back. You can see them when you lean forward. Stop a moment; let’s get close to the edge. That’s better,” he said, as he paused just at the top of the slope. “Now lean forward, and look away to the left a little way from the church tower. That’s one of them. I’m not sure about the others, for Uncle Richard does not talk about them much.”
Whizz! Rustle.
“What’s that?” said Uncle James, ceasing his tiresome moaning.
“Don’t know, uncle. Rabbit, I think.”
Rap!
“Yes, it was a rabbit. They strike the ground with their feet when they are startled.”
“Ah! Then that’s his wood is it?” said James Brandon, leaning forward. “A nice bit of property.”
Crack!
“What’s that, boy?”
“Somebody’s throwing stones,” cried Tom excitedly, turning to look round, but there was nothing visible, though the boy felt sure that the thrower must be Pete Warboys hidden somewhere among the trees. Then he felt sure of it, for, glancing toward the clumps of furze in the more open part, another well-aimed stone came and struck the road between the wheels of the bath-chair.