"I'll come, Eric," said Winifred. "That is, if you want me. And you can lend me your small gun. Those twelve-bores kick so."
"Delighted, Freddy, I'm sure," exclaimed her brother with genuine pleasure. "Farrar, old bird, you'll have to look to your laurels. Freddy is a regular terror when she's after bunnies."
Soon after breakfast the following morning the three guns set out, accompanied by a pair of silky-haired spaniels, greatly to Bruno's resentment, for to the St. Bernard things didn't seem at all right that his master should take a couple of insignificant and strange dogs for a stroll, while he was condemned to spend the morning locked up in a shed.
"By Jove, this air is great!" remarked the sub, as they crossed a stile and gained the open moor. "Your governor couldn't have chosen more desolate surroundings, Greenwood. Not a sign of a human being or a habitation for miles ahead. Look here, Miss Greenwood, allow me to carry your gun."
The A.P. laughed as his sister shook her head resolutely.
"Freddy likes to be independent," he observed. "I say, Farrar, you've just told a terminological inexactitude; where are your eyes? There's some one coming this way."
"Yes, you're right," admitted Farrar. "And, strange enough, it's the fellow we saw on Trebalda Station platform: the one who spoke to Mr. Barcroft, you remember?"
"Good morning," exclaimed Entwistle, raising his cap as he approached. "Can you direct me to 'The Croft'?"
"You are going to see your friend, Mr. Barcroft, I presume?" asked the A.P. after giving the required direction. "You are Mr. Entwistle, I think?"
"I am," admitted the Secret Service man, wondering how much Peter had said about him. "And how is your St. Bernard, Mr. Farrar?"