“Rabbit?” he whispered.
“Hedgehog,” grumbled David hoarsely; “don’t talk.”
Silence again for a minute or two, and the peculiar sensation caused by the cry of the bristly animal still hung in Tom’s nerves, when there was another noise which produced a thoroughly different effect, for a donkey from somewhere out on the common suddenly gave vent to its doleful extraordinary bray, ending in a most dismal squeaking yell, suggestive of all the wind being out of its organ.
Tom smiled as he knelt there, wondering how Nature could have given an animal so strange a cry, as all was again still, till voices arose once more in the village; some one said “Good-night!” then a door banged, and, pat pat, he could hear faintly retiring steps, “Good-night” repeated, and then close to his elbow—
Snor-rr-re.
“David!” he whispered, as he touched the gardener on the shoulder—“David!”
“Arn’t better taters grow’d, I say, and—Eh? Is he comed?”
“No! Listen,” said Tom, thinking it as well not to allude to his companion’s lapse.
“Oh ay, I’m a-listenin’, sir, with all my might,” whispered the gardener; “but I don’t think it’s him yet. Wait a bit, and we’ll nab him if he don’t mind.”
Silence again for quite ten minutes, and then David exclaimed—