"But didn't you see him, sir?" Buz persisted. "There he goes close by the garden wall; oh, do look."
Mr Ffolliot looked for all he was worth. He twiddled the glasses and put them out of focus, but naturally he failed to behold the mythical fox which was the product of his offspring's fertile brain.
They were at the bottom of the slope now, and Buz gave a sigh of relief.
"I thought I saw two youths in the five-acre field," Mr Ffolliot remarked presently; "what were they doing?"
"Practising footer, I fancy," Buz said easily, thankful that at last he could safely speak the truth.
"Ah," said Mr Ffolliot, "it is extraordinary what a lot of time the working classes seem able to spend upon games nowadays. Still, I'm always glad they should play rather than merely watch. It is that watching and not doing that saps the moral as well as the physical strength of the nation."
"It's Thursday, you see, father—early closing," Buz suggested.
"Well, well, I'm glad they should have their game. Shall we stroll round and have a look at them?"
"Oh I wouldn't, if I were you, father, they'd stop directly. These village chaps are always so shy. It would spoil their afternoon."
"Would it?" Mr Ffolliot asked dubiously; "would it? I should have thought they would have found encouragement in the fact that their Squire took an interest in their sports."