“Here, I say, hold hard a minute! This isn’t Pall Mall, Trevor,” shouted Pratt. “How the deuce am I to get over that place?”
“Jump, man,” cried Trevor, laughing and looking back. “That’s nothing to some of our ditches.”
Pratt looked at the ditch, then down at his little legs, and then blew out his cheeks.
“Risk it,” he said, laconically; and, stepping back a few yards, he took a run, jumped, came short, and had to scramble up the bank, a little disarranged, but smiling and triumphant. “All right,” he said, “go on.”
“Corn is, on the whole, a fair crop, sir,” said Humphrey.
“And barley?”
“Plenty of that too, sir. But I’ve a deal of trouble with trespassers, sir.”
“How’s that?” said Trevor, looking round at the bright, rugged hill and dale, with trees all aglow with the touch of autumn’s hand.
“You see, sir, it’s the new people,” said the keeper.
“What new people?”