The moment he began to feed they began to shoot. In vain did
the enemy himself invest in a pea-shooter, and endeavour to answer the
fire while he fed the young birds with his other hand; his attention was
divided, and his shots flew wild, while every one of theirs told on his
face and hands, and drove him into howlings and imprecations. He
had been driven to ensconce the nest in a corner of his already
too-well-filled den.
His door was barricaded by a set of ingenious bolts of his own
invention, for the sieges were frequent by the neighbours when any
unusually ambrosial odour spread itself from the den to the neighbouring
studies. The door panels were in a normal state of smash, but the frame
of the door resisted all besiegers, and behind it the owner carried on
his varied pursuits--much in the same state of mind, I should fancy,
as a border-farmer lived in, in the days of the moss-troopers, when his
hold might be summoned or his cattle carried off at any minute of night
or day.
"Open, Martin, old boy; it's only I, Tom Brown."
"Oh, very well; stop a moment." One bolt went back. "You're sure East
isn't there?"
"No, no; hang it, open." Tom gave a kick, the other bolt creaked, and he
entered the den.
Den indeed it was--about five feet six inches long by five wide, and
seven feet high. About six tattered school-books, and a few chemical
books, Taxidermy, Stanley on Birds, and an odd volume of Bewick, the
latter in much better preservation, occupied the top shelves.
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