knot in Nick's tail.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

A GRIM TUSSLE.

"I say, Cetchy, isn't this splendid?" said Haviland, drawing in long
breaths of the cool night air. He was simply revelling in the sense of
absolute liberty as he gazed around upon the dim fields, then up at the
star-gemmed sky.

"Oh, yes. Splendid, rather! Hangman's Wood long way--get morning very
early," replied the other.

The long, dark outline of the ill-omened covert loomed before them; and
at sight of it Haviland could hardly restrain a wild paroxysm of
laughter, as he remembered the last time they visited the place, and the
awful scare they had put upon the unfortunate keeper. Just as they
gained it, the moon in its last quarter arose above the tree tops.

"It's awfully dark in here, Cetchy," whispered Haviland, as they stood
within the gloomy depths of the wood. "These trees are too thick. We
can't see a blessed bird."

It was even as he had said. The light of the feeble moon hardly
penetrated here, and the chill gloom and weird associations of the place
began to take effect even upon their spirits. A fox barked in the
further end of the covert, and ever and anon the doleful hooting of
owls, both far and near, rang out upon the night, and now and again one
of the ghostly birds would drop down almost into their faces, and skim
along the ride on soft, noiseless pinions. The earthy moisture of the
soil and undergrowth was as the odour of a charnel-house. Every now and
then some sound--strange, mysterious, unaccountable--would cause them to
stop short, and, with beating hearts, stand intently listening. Then
they went on again.

They had secured no spoil; the tree tops were too thick to see the
roosting birds. At last, as luck would have it--whether for good or ill
we say not--they managed to glimpse a single pheasant through a gap
against the sky. All of a quiver with excitement, Haviland pressed the
trigger, and missed. Still the dim black ball up aloft never moved.
Again he took careful aim, and this time it did move, for it came down
from its perch with a resounding flapping of wings, and hit the earth
with a hard thud, still flapping. In a moment the Zulu boy was upon it
and had wrung its neck, but not before it had uttered a couple of
raucous croaks that seemed, to the over-strained sense of its slayers,
loud enough to be heard for miles in the midnight stillness.

"I'm glad we've got something at last, Cetchy," whispered