“We make besoms of it, sir,” was the ready reply, “but that space has been cleared by the keepers so that the young grouse may have fresh green shoots to feed on.”
Here was a topic on which he was crammed with information. His face grew animated, his eyes sparkled, the words came fast and were well chosen. As he spoke, the purple moor, the black firs, the meadows, the corn land red with poppies, became peopled with fur and feather. On the hilltops the glorious black cock, in the woods the dandy pheasant and swift pigeon, among the meadows and crops the whirring partridge, became actualities, present, but unseen. There were plenty of hares on the arable land and the rising ground; as for rabbits, they swarmed everywhere.
“This ghyll will be alive with them in little more than an hour,” said Martin confidently. “I shouldn’t be surprised, if we had a dog and put him among those whins, but half-a-dozen rabbits would bolt out in all directions.”
“Please, can I be a little bow-wow?” cried Elsie. She sprang to her feet and ran toward the clump of gorse and bracken he had pointed out, imitating a dog’s bark as she went.
“Take care of the thorns,” shouted Martin, making after her more leisurely.
She paused on the verge of the tangled mass of vegetation and said, “Shoo!”
“That’s no good,” he laughed. “You must walk through and kick the thick clumps of grass—this way.”
He plunged into the midst of the gorse. She followed. Not a rabbit budged.
“That’s odd,” he said, rustling the undergrowth vigorously. “There ought to be a lot here.”
“You know Angèle Saumarez?” said the girl suddenly.