children on their way home from school. The forester said: ‘Hope you’re well, Jurko?’ He answered: ‘Thank you.’
‘Looking for rabbit-food?’
Jurko began to tremble.
‘I’m not looking for rabbit-food . . . I’m not looking for rabbit-food,’ he stammered, then added anxiously: ‘I’m looking for traps, they’ve been laying traps here.’
Jurko had flashes of clairvoyance in his muddled head. When there had been theft or incendiarism, his instinct invariably told him who was the culprit. This sense in him seemed to have been developed at the expense of all the others.
Martin the forester knew that Jurko was scenting poachers.
The head-forester had gone into the town early on this Sunday morning, leaving Martin in charge. Sunday mornings were a favourite time with the poachers, and Martin was interested in his work, and ambitious. There were constant little skirmishes between him and the poachers; he was ruthless, and they knew it and hated him; but no serious incident had occurred so far. Neither had they, according to their custom, thrown him bound and gagged into an anthill, nor had he wounded any of them.
