Whether the man who shot Rusty told the story to the ginger-whiskered keeper, or whether the latter himself surprised some of us feasting on his pheasant food in the coppice I do not know, but from that very day dated the war against the squirrels on the Hall estate.
That same afternoon, having discharged the unpleasant duty of telling poor Rusty’s widow of the sad event of the morning, I was roaming sadly about our oak-tree, searching under the bark for the insects which inhabited the rotten wood, when I heard a gun fired twice at the other end of the coppice. At first I hardly moved, for I took it that the keeper was merely killing a weasel or some such vermin. But when two more shots followed quickly, and immediately afterwards the vicious crack, crack of a lighter weapon, I was amazed, for, like all other woodland dwellers, I was perfectly well aware that the shooting season had not yet commenced. When the double barrel spoke again, and this time nearer, I called Walnut, who was up in the top branches, and together we took hasty refuge in our hole.
We had not been there five minutes before there came a quick scuttering of claws up the rough bark, and simultaneously the tramping of heavy feet through the bracken at a little distance.
I was moving to the entrance to find out what was going on when something fairly shot into the hole, knocking me back to its farthest end. When I had picked myself up, there was Cob lying panting, almost too much exhausted to speak.
‘They’re after us, Scud!’ he gasped at last.
‘Who? What?’
‘The keeper and a boy. They’ve shot three of us already, and I’m frightened to death about Hazel. I was away from home and couldn’t get back. I saw three dead bodies.’
Here a gruff human voice broke in from below.
‘Where’s the dratted little beggar got to? I seed him jump into this here oak. He can’t be far off.’