'Listen a shake. Foxy's up wind comin' down hill like beans. When you hear him move in the bushes, go straight across to Aves. They want to catch us flagrante delicto.'
They dived into the gorse at right angles to the tunnel, openly crossing the grass, and lay still in Aves.
'What did I tell you?' Stalky carefully put away the pipes and tobacco. The Sergeant, out of breath, was leaning against the fence, raking the furze with his binoculars, but he might as well have tried to see through a sand-bag. Anon, Prout and King appeared behind him. They conferred.
'Aha! Foxy don't like the notice-boards, and he don't like the prickles either. Now we'll cut up the tunnel and go to the Lodge. Hullo! They've sent Foxy into cover.'
The Sergeant was waist-deep in crackling, swaying furze, his ears filled with the noise of his own progress. The boys reached the shelter of the wood and looked down through a belt of hollies.
'Hellish noise!' said Stalky critically. 'Don't think Colonel Dabney will like it. I move we go up to the Lodge and get something to eat. We might as well see the fun out.'
Suddenly the keeper passed them at a trot.
'Who'm they to combe-bottom for Lard's sake? Master'll be crazy,' he said.
'Poachers simly,' Stalky replied in the broad Devon that was the boy's langue de guerre.
'I'll poach 'em to raights!' He dropped into the funnel-like combe, which presently began to fill with noises, notably King's voice crying, 'Go on,
