"We seed him go down into t' Brick House meadows."
They cut hazel-sticks and started off on this yokel's game, running heavily and clumsily after the fashion of hobnailed countrymen. They made straight toward the Brick House, scrambling through hedges, flourishing their sticks, and shouting to imaginary comrades.
"He be down yonder, Dave."
"Sure."
"I saw him break into t' garden."
They pounded on, sweating, shouting, flourishing their sticks. A head appeared at an upper window, and then disappeared. David and Tom Stook blundered through into the Brick House garden. A man came running round the corner of the house, a pistol in his pocket, and his hand on the butt thereof.
Stook bawled at him.
"T' mad bull, man, have ye seen him?"
The Frenchman stared, watchful and suspicious.
"I see no bull."