"No," said Mr. Collop indulgently. "You wouldn't. It wants a trained eye. Now, you'll excuse me, sir, but if you 'ad been in the Yard as I 'ave, and as long as I 'ave, you'd see something. It's only a fine indication, like, but your mind would leap to it. At least mine 'as. Do you notice any marks on that snow?"
Mr. de Bohun honestly said he could not—nor could any man have seen any from where he stood.
"I certainly see no footprints," he said.
"Footprints o' wot?" answered Mr. Collop. "Footprints o' 'uman beings? Man and woman? Leastways boots? Nah!" and he shook his head. "You want ... you want your eyes better skinned than that in our trade, if you'll excuse me saying it. Shall I tell you what's there? I can see it."
His host was justly irritated. "Well, I can't," he exploded. "What is there?"
Mr. Collop leant over, made a shell of his hand and whispered in a voice to wake the dead:
"Footprints of a fowl! Leastways," he added hurriedly, "not a domestic fowl, I mean. But a bird. A bird's been there!" he added, nodding solemnly.
"Well, what of it?" said the last of the de Bohuns, still more irritated.
"Ah! You'll see!" said Mr. Collop, in a tone of great equality.
He stepped back, pulled his waistcoat down over his paunch, passed his hand cavalierly over his abominable moustache, and gave an order—as though he were master—for he now felt himself securely in the saddle.