“There’s the reapers,” said Mark; “what a lot they have cut.”
They could see the sheaves stacked, and the stubble, which was of a lighter hue than the standing wheat. Every now and then dark dots came to the golden surface of the wheat like seals to breathe. These dots were the reapers’ heads.
“There’s the pheasant,” said Bevis, pointing to the Waste. The bird was making his way zigzag round the green ant-hills, towards the stubble. Sometimes he walked, sometimes he ran, now and then he gave a jump in his run. They lost sight of him behind a great grey boulder-stone, whose top was visible above the brambles and rush-bunches which surrounded its base.
“Jack’s busy now up in the hills,” said Mark, looking the other way towards the Downs. “He might just as well let us have the rifle while he’s busy with the harvest.”
“Just as well. I say, let’s explore the Waste to-morrow. It is a wilderness—you don’t know what you may not find in a wilderness.”
“Grey stones,” said Mark. “They’re tombs—genii live in them.”
“Serpents guarding treasures, and lamps burning; they have been burning these ages and ages—”
“Awful claps of thunder underground.”
“We will go and see to-morrow—I believe there are heaps of kangaroos out there.”
“There’s the channel.”