“Nay, sir, they’d be too heavy and too stiff. I know the sort—good stout young hazels as won’t break when you hit with ’em, but wrop well round.”
The hazels were cut and carried back to the garden, burdened with their twigs and greenery.
“He might be about, and think they was meant for him, if we trimmed ’em into sticks, Master Tom. He won’t think anything if he sees ’em like this.”
The hazels were shortened to a convenient length as soon as they were in the garden, David chuckling loudly the while.
“I owe that chap a lot, Master Tom, and if I can get a chance I mean to pay him this time. Hit low, sir, if you get a crack at him.”
“Not likely to hurt him,” said Tom.
“More likely, sir. Trousers are thin, ’specially hisn, and they’ve got some good holes in ’em generally, where you might reach his skin; ’sides, you’re not likely to cut his face or injure his eyes. Nothing like hitting low. Now, then, I’m going on with my reg’lar work, and as soon as it’s dark I shall be down here in among the blackcurrants, with a couple of old sacks and a horse-cloth, for us to sit on, so as not to ketch rheumatics.”
“About what time?” said Tom.
“Arpus eight, sir. There’s no moon to-night so it’ll be pretty dark; but we shall hear him.”
“If he comes,” said Tom.