The tit flew off, and the oscillations of the bracken slowly died away.

Then they began again, but more violently, and Dickson could not see the bird that caused them.

It must be something down at the roots of the covert, a rabbit, perhaps, or a fox, or a weasel.
He watched for the first sign of the beast, and thought he caught a glimpse of tawny fur.

Yes, there it was--pale dirty yellow, a weasel clearly.

Then suddenly the patch grow larger, and to his amazement he looked at a human face--the face of a pallid small boy.
A head disentangled itself, followed by thin shoulders, and then by a pair of very dirty bare legs.