A wild duck and drake were flying towards them, across the pool. They came on, seemingly heedless of the human beings on the bank. Their flight seemed hurried and distressed. Overhead they passed, and Mr Fanshawe raised his gun. The report echoed from the woods, and the duck and her mate passed on unscathed, but the hawk that had been pursuing them came whirtling from the sky, and fell on the ground a few yards away from the marksman.
“Faith, that was a fine shot,” said Patsy, as he picked up the corpse.
“There are Grampounds even amongst birds,” muttered Dicky to himself, as he drew the unfired cartridge and the empty case from his gun. “Come, Patsy, I’m off back; there’s no use hanging about after duck, for we have no dog to retrieve them with.”
“Let the stable chap be in your room at ten, Patsy,” said Mr Fanshawe, as he went up the front steps, “to help to fix up the fixings for this burglar chap, but mind you tell him not to say a word to any one. I’ll come down at ten to help you—twelve o’clock the gentleman said he’d call, didn’t he?”
“Yes, sir,” said Patsy. “And, Mr Fanshawe!”
“Yes?”
“I forgot to tell you, sir, you needn’t be afear’d of Mr Boxall for the next few days.”
“How’s that?”
“When Bob Mahony hit him the skelp on the head wid the sut bag, his eye popped out of his head on the road.”
“His what?—Oh, I remember——”