Half way across the warren, a rabbit suddenly darted out of the furze bush and tore off as hard as it could away from the lad, at the same time making a wide curve to the right.
Before Phillips could fully cock his gun and raise it to his shoulder the rabbit was beyond ordinary range. The Scout took a rapid aim and pressed the trigger. With a report that, compared with the crack of a miniature rifle, was like a cannon going off, the gun kicked and sent the lad spinning. In his excitement he forgot the pain of the blow, for the rabbit was sprawling on the ground.
"Got one, at any rate," exclaimed Phillips, gleefully.
Placing his gun on the ground with more haste than care the Scout ran towards his prize; but before he had covered half the distance the rabbit contrived to regain its feet and crawl down a hole.
"What a nuisance," said the Scout dolefully, and, lying at full length, he thrust his arm down the hole in the hopes of being able to secure the wounded animal. He could hear it scuffling only a few feet away, but it was a case of so near and yet so far: as far as he was concerned he had lost his trophy.
Rather crestfallen, Phillips returned to the camp, where he found Farmer Trebarwith surrounded by an attentive audience of the "Wolves."
"Got anything?" asked Neale. "We heard you firing."
"Of course he's got some," said Hayes. "He's shot so many that he's had to leave them for us to go out and fetch."
"You jolly well shut up," retorted Phillips. "I knocked one over, and that's more than you could do, Hayes."
"Where is it, then?" asked his tormentor.