'Fetchimout!' said the voice, all in one word.

'Nice cheery remark to make!' thought Barrett. 'He'll have to do a good
bit of digging before he fetches _me_ out. I'm a fixture for the
present.'

There was a sound of scratching as if the dog, in his eagerness to
oblige, were trying to uproot the tree. Barrett, realizing that unless
the keeper took it into his head to climb, which was unlikely, he was
as safe as if he had been in his study at Philpott's, chuckled within
himself, and listened intently.

'What is it, then?' said the keeper. 'Good dog, at 'em! Fetch him out,
Jack.'

Jack barked excitedly, and redoubled his efforts.

The sound of scratching proceeded.

'R-r-r-ats-s-s!' said the mendacious keeper. Jack had evidently paused
for breath. Barrett began quite to sympathize with him. The thought
that the animal was getting farther away from the object of his search
with every ounce of earth he removed, tickled him hugely. He would have
liked to have been able to see the operations, though. At present it
was like listening to a conversation through a telephone. He could only
guess at what was going on.

Then he heard somebody whistling 'The Lincolnshire Poacher', a