in this case it was not their fault that they went
on. It was the fault of the rabbit market. At the fifteenth rabbit,
when they had but eighteen shillings and eightpence toward the stole,
the bottom fell out of it. For the time the desire of Little Deeping
to eat rabbits was sated.

It was also the fault of the insidious cook of Mrs. Blenkinsop, who,
after refusing to buy the fifteenth rabbit, said: "Now, if you was to
bring me a nice fat pheasant twice a week, it would be a very different
thing, Master Dangerfield."

The Terror looked at her thoughtfully; then he said: "And how much
would you pay for pheasants?"

The cook made a silent appeal to those processes of mental arithmetic
she had learned in her village school, saw her way to a profit of
threepence, perhaps ninepence, on each bird, and said: "Two and
threepence each, sir."

The Terror looked at her again thoughtfully, considering her offer. He
saw her profit of threepence, perhaps ninepence, and said: "All right,
I'll bring you two or three a week. But you'll have to pay cash."

"Oh, yes, sir. Of course, sir," said the cook.

"Do you know any one else who'd buy pheasants?" he said.

"Well, there's Mr. Carrington's cook," said the cook slowly. "She has
the management of the housekeeping money like I do. I think she might
buy pheasants from you. Mr. Carrington's very partial to game."

"Right," said the Terror. "And thank you for telling me."

He rode straight to the house of Mr. Carrington, and broached the
matter to his cook, to whom he had already sold rabbits. He made a
direct offer to her of two pheasants a week at two and threepence each.
After a vain attempt to beat him down to two shillings, she accepted it.

He rode home in a pleasant glow of triumph: the snares which caught
rabbits would catch pheasants. At first he was for catching those
pheasants by himself. Snaring rabbits was a harmless enterprise;
snaring pheasants was poaching; and poaching was not a girl's work.
Then he came to the conclusion that he would need the help of Erebus
and must tell her.

When he revealed to her this vision of a new Eldorado, she said: "But
where are you going to get pheasants from?"

"Woods," said the Terror, embracing the horizon in a sweeping gesture.

Erebus looked round the horizon with greedy eyes; they sparkled
fiercely.

"The only thing is, we don't know nearly enough about snaring
pheasants. And I don't like to ask Tom Cobb: h