The sun was well up and warm, but by the brook the last of the
night mist still fumed off the water. They picked up the chain of
otter's footprints on the mud, and followed it from the bank,
between the weeds and the drenched mowing, while the birds
shouted with surprise. Then the track left the brook and became a
smear, as though a log had been dragged along.

They traced it into Three Cows meadow, over the mill-sluice
to the Forge, round Hobden's garden, and then up the slope till it
ran out on the short turf and fern of Pook's Hill, and they heard
the cock-pheasants crowing in the woods behind them.

'No use!' said Dan, questing like a puzzled hound. 'The dew's
drying off, and old Hobden says otters'll travel for miles.'

'I'm sure we've travelled miles.' Una fanned herself with her
hat. 'How still it is! It's going to be a regular roaster.' She looked
down the valley, where no chimney yet smoked.

'Hobden's up!' Dan pointed to the open door of the Forge
cottage. 'What d'you suppose he has for breakfast?'
'One of them. He says they eat good all times of the year,' Una
jerked her head at some stately pheasants going down to the
brook for a drink.

A few steps farther on a fox broke almost under their bare feet,
yapped, and trotted off.

'Ah, Mus' Reynolds -Mus' Reynolds'-Dan was quoting from
old Hobden, - 'if I knowed all you knowed, I'd know something.' [See 'The