Oliver himself forgot everything but the live animals before his eyes, when he saw how many there were under the trees. The grass was swarming with mice, moles, and small snakes; while rabbits cocked up their little white tails, in all directions, and partridges flew out of every bush, and hares started from every hollow that the boy looked into.
“All soaked out of their holes;—don’t know what to do with themselves;—fine sport for those that have a mind to it,” said Roger, as he lay on the ground, pulling back a little mouse by its long tail, as often as it tried to run away.
“You have no mind for sport to-day, I suppose, Roger. I should not think anybody has.”
“I don’t know;—I’m rarely hungry,” said the boy.
“So were we; but we forgot it again. Father is in the mill there...”
“You need not tell me that. Don’t I see him?”
“But we think he is looking out for Stephen.”
“He won’t find him,” said Roger, in a very low voice; so low that Oliver was not sure what he said.
“He is not here on the hill, then, Roger?”
“On the hill,—no! I don’t know where he is, nor the woman either. I suppose they are drowned, as I was, nearly. If they did not swim as I did, they must be drowned: and they could hardly do that, as I had the dog.”