'Nothing, sir. We're looking for old Hobden,' Dan replied. 'He promised to get us a sleeper.'
'Sleeper? A dormeuse do you say?'
'Yes, a dormouse, sir.'
'I understand. I passed a woodman on the low grounds. Come!'
He wheeled up the ride again, and pointed through an opening to the patch of beech-stubs, chestnut, hazel, and birch that old Hobden would turn into firewood, hop-holes, pea-boughs, and house faggots before Spring. The old man was as busy as a beaver.
Something laughed beneath a thorn, and Puck stole out, his finger on his lip.
'Look!' he whispered. 'Along between the spindle trees! Ridley has been there this half-hour.'
The children followed his point, and saw Ridley the keeper in an old dry ditch, watching Hobden as a cat watches a mouse.
'Huh!' cried Una. 'Hobden always 'tends to his wires before breakfast. He puts his rabbits into the faggots he's allowed to take home. He'll tell us about 'em to-morrow.'
'We had the same breed in my day,' Sir Richard replied, and moved off quietly, Puck at his bridle, the children on either side between the close-trimmed beech stuff.
'What did you do to them?' said Dan, as they're-passed Ridley's terrible tree.
'That!' Sir Richard jerked his head toward the dangling owls.
