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"No fox's doin' a girt-grown two-shear as could 'maist knock a h'ox." Jim's hands travelled from the body to the dead creature's throat. He screamed. "By gob, Master! look 'ee theer!" He held his hand up in the moonlight, and it dripped red. "And warm yet! warm!" "Tear some bracken, Jim!" ordered the other, "and set alight. We mun see to this." The postman did as bid.
Monkey Brand, wise and patient, humoured him. "Let him take his time," called Boy. "Steady, lad, steady!" Old Mat watched grimly. "I thought as much," he muttered. "He ain't 'alf a little rogue. 'Tain't temper, eether. He's the temper of a h'angel and the constitootion of a h'ox. It's that he just won't. For all the world like a great spoilt boy. He's mischeevous.
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