"Better not let me get a sight o'
one down our woods."

The man wiped his face again with his hand, and looked at us both
attentively.

"Young master here said he'd stooff a magpie for me if you shot one, Bob
Hopley."

"So I will," said Mercer, "if Mr Hopley shoots one for you."

"That's a bargain then," said the man, rummaging in his pocket, after
sticking the fork in the ground. "Here, this way," he continued, as he
drew out a bright key. "Coming, Bob?"

"No, I don't want to see owls, 'less they're nailed on my shed door."

He seated himself on the edge of a great hay-rack, and we followed the
farmer's man through a door into the dark interior of one of the
oast-houses, where we looked up to see the light coming in through the
opening at the side of the cowl, and then followed Jem up some steps
into a broad loft, at one corner of which was a short ladder leading up
to a trap-door in the floor overhead.

"Mind your heads, young gents, ceiling's pretty low."

We had already found that out by having our caps scraped by a rough beam
under which we passed.

"Now then, go up the ladder and push the trap-door open gently, so as
not to frighten 'em. Turn the door right over, and let it down by the
staple so as it lies on the floor. 'Tain't dark; plenty o' light comes
through the pigeon-holes."

"Haven't you got any pigeons now, Jem Roff?"

"No, nor don't want none. Up wi' ye, and let me get back to my work."

Mercer needed no further invitation, and, followed closely by me, he
crossed to the corner where the ladder stood, climbed up, thrust the
trap-door over, and disappeared--head--shoulders--body--legs.

Then I climbed too, and found myself in a dirty, garret-like place, lit
by the rays falling through about a score of pigeon-holes.

For a few moments the place was dim, and I could hardly make out
anything, but very soon after my eyes grew accustomed to the half light,
and I was ready to join in Mercer's admiration as he cried,--"Isn't he a
beauty!"

For we were looking where, in one corner, sitting bolt upright, with his
eyes half closed, there was a fine young owl, just fully fledged and fit
to fly, while nothing could be more beautiful than his snow-white,
flossy breast, and the buff colour of his back, all dotted over with
grey, and beautifully-formed dots.

"Oh, shouldn't I like him to stuff!" cried Mercer. "He'll never look so
clean and beautiful again."

"But what's that?" I cried, pointi