Tommy laid his head against the Old Owl's feathers, had a vague idea
that she smelt of heather, and thought it must be from living on the
moor, shut his eyes, and leant his full weight, expecting that he and
the Owl would certainly fall off the beam together.
Down--feathers--fluff--he sank and sank, could feel nothing solid,
jumped up with a start to save himself, opened his eyes, and found that
he was sitting among the heather in the malt-loft, with Johnnie
sleeping by his side.

"How quickly we came!" said he; "that is certainly a very clever Old
Owl. I couldn't have counted ten whilst my eyes were shut. How very
odd!"

But what was odder still was, that it was no longer moonlight, but
early dawn.

"Get up, Johnnie," said his brother, "I've got a story to tell you."

And while Johnnie sat up, and rubbed his eyes open, he related his
adventures on the moor.

"Is all that true?" said Johnnie. "I mean, did it really happen?"

"Of course it did," said his brother; "don't you believe it?"

"Oh yes," said Johnnie. "But I thought it was perhaps only a true
story, like Granny's true stories. I believe all those, you know. But
if you were there, you know, it is different--"