“What makes you say that?” cried Saurin quickly, turning and catching him sharply by the arm.
“I don’t know!” replied Edwards, astonished at the effect of his words. “I have read about fights between gamekeepers and poachers in books, and heard of them, and that; haven’t you? How queer you look! Is there anything the matter?”
“Not a bit of it,” said Saurin, regretting his imprudence; “only, I was frozen hanging about last night, and when I got back I could not sleep for cold feet, so I am a bit tired. And I think I have caught cold too. And you know,” he added, laughing, “having enlisted in the ranks of the poachers last night, at least in intention, I feel bound to resist any attacks on their humanity.
“But, as a matter of fact, I believe that they do show fight for their spoil and their liberty when they find themselves surprised. Shots are exchanged and mischief happens sometimes. But my poor little air-gun would not be a very formidable weapon in a row, I expect. Its peppercorn bullets are good for a rabbit or pheasant, but would hardly disable a man. The gamekeeper with his double-barrel would have a good deal the best of it. But, I say, my cold has not taken away my appetite. Let us get in to breakfast, and hang poaching.”
Chapter Ten.
The Fates are down upon Buller.
Tom Buller had finished his breakfast, and was ruefully preparing his lesson in his room, when he heard his name being called up the staircase. “Buller! I say, Buller!”
“Well, what’s the row?” he asked, opening his door with a sinking heart. The voice of the caller sounded singularly harsh and discordant, he thought.