"Oh! I was just lookin' round the traps. My father rents the hills from
here to the Clough, and I work with him."
"You find it chilly work this weather?"
"It's grey and cold; but we haven't to mind those things."
"Are you busy all day?"
"No. I only go to the traps twice, and then drive the rabbits into the
town, and the rest o' the time I'm clear."
"Then where do you live?"
"I stop by myself mostly in the wooden house at the Poachers' Hollow,
and old Betty Winthrop comes and does what's wanted to keep the place
right."
We walked on exchanging small talk until we came to the hollow, and I
saw the tiny hut where my new friend lived. The hollow was a gruesome
place. It acted as a kind of funnel whereby the wind from the great
woods was poured over the beach, and sent moaning away across the sea.
In summer it was gay with bracken, and golden ragwort, and wild
geranium, but in winter it looked only fit for adventurous witches to
gambol in.