124 CHIRPY, THE RUFFIAN. 
here, and it was noticeable how quiet he 
became. Creeping about as silently as a 
mouse, he gave no other indication of his 
presence than the spring back of a cane after 
being released of his weight. No sound made 
he. And very hard he fed, too, stopping 
always at every peck to peer, in his own 
peculiar, jerky way, towards exactly all points 
of the compass each time. 
This, however, was only part of his game. 
The radish-patch adjoined the raspberry-canes, 
and after a bit one became suddenly conscious 
of Chirpy’s brown form, harmonising nicely 
with the ground, hopping about in the 
shadows here, as quiet as quiet could be. 
Of course, he was just ‘ wolfing’ up the seeds. 
Somebody opened a window ; there was the 
sound of a human footfall, and—there was no 
Chirpy. He had evaporated into the shadow 
of the canes, and had just captured there a 
nice, fat, green grub creature, when two things 
happened at once. Firstly, a gust of hot 
summer wind came and bent the canes, 
blowing them aside momentarily only, but 
long enough to give Chirpy a flashlight vision, 
as it were, of a shadowy, low something, 
searcely discernible in the chequered shade, 
and of eyes, green-yellow and sinister, floating 
towards him. Secondly, his wife, from the 
