But it was deadly dull. We tried a sweepstake f'r th' one as
could recognise most Chinks at sight, and a raffle for who could guess
how many trees in a circle; but there wasn't much spice in it. So at
last Ratty suggested we should try a bit o' poaching.
"'Ah doan't know th' first thing about it,' I says; 'Ah'm town bred.
Nobbut Ah could knock a few rabbits over if Ah'd got a Lewis gun handy.'
"'Rabbuts be danged!' says he; 'Ah've no use f'r such vermin. Theer's
stags, so Ah've heerd tell, in this forest.'
"'Ah wudden say no to a haunch o' venison,' I answered; 'but stags is
artillery work.'
"'They is not,' says Ratty. 'Nor yet rifles nor bombs.'
"'Ah s'pose you stops theer holes an' puts in a ferret,' says I,
sarcastic; 'or else traps 'em wi' cheese.'
"'That's the only kind o' hunting you've bin used to,' replies Ratty.
'Stags is caught wi' tactics, a trip-wire an' a lasso.'
"'Well, la-ad,' I says, 'you'd best do th' lassoing. I doan't know the
habits o' stags.'
"Ratty scrounges a prime rope fra' somewheers, an' we creeps out after
nightfall. It was a dree night, the owd bracken underfoot damp an'
sodden, an' th' tall firs looking grim an' gho-ostly in th' gloom. Soon
theer was a crackling o' twigs, like a tank scouting on tiptoe.
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