" Only his parents knew of what
fits of rage he was capable.
He wore now, as he came into the living-room, an excited,
quasi-triumphant look, which did not escape his father.
"What you been after, Will?"
"Helpin' Wilson."
Wilson was a neighbouring keeper, who in June and July, before the young
pheasants were returned to the woods, occasionally employed Will Brand as
a watcher, especially at night.
Brand made no reply. His wife brought in the tea, and he and Will helped
themselves greedily. Presently Will said abruptly:
"A've made that owd gun work all right."
"Aye?" Brand's tone was interrogative, but listless.
"I shot a kestrel an' a stoat wi' un this morning."
"Yo'did, eh?"
Will nodded, his mouth crammed with bread and butter, strange lights and
flickering expressions playing over his starved, bony face.
"Wilson says I'm gettin' a varra fair shot."
"Aye? I've heard tha' practisin'." Brand turned a pair of dull eyes upon
his son.
"An' I wish tha' wudn't do't i' my garden!" said Mrs. Brand, with energy.
"I doan't howd wi' guns an' shootin' aboot, in a sma' garden, wi' t'
washin' an' aw."
"It's feyther's garden, ain't it, as long as he pays t' rent!" said Will,
bringing his hand down on the table with sudden passion. "Wha's to hinder
me? Mebbe yo' think Melrose 'ull be aboot."
"Howd your tongue, Willie," said his mother, mildly. "We werena taakin'
o' Melrose."
"Noa--because we're aye thinkin'!"
The lad's eyes blazed as he roughly pushed his cup for a fresh supply.
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