Away ran Tom, and, delighted at his success, picked up first a hen, then a chicken, then fished out a dying duck or two, and so on, until he numbered eight head of domestic game, with which his bag was nobly distended.
"Those were right good shots, sir," said the farmer.
"Yes," said Tom, "eight ducks and fowls were more than you bargained for, old fellow—worth rather more, I suspect, than seven shillings—eh?"
"Why, yes," said the man, scratching his head—"I think they be; but what do I care for that—they are none of them mine!"
"Here," said Tom, "I was for once in my life beaten, and made off as fast as I could, for fear the right owner of my game might make his appearance—not but that I could have given the fellow that took me in seven times as much as I did for his cunning and coolness."
POLLY HIGGINBOTTOM.[67]
In Chester's town a man there dwelt,
Not rich as Crœsus, but a buck;