The rabbits had scarce a yard to bolt from one hole to another, so that it was sharp work.
Little John now gave up all hope, and only pleaded piteously for his ferrets.

'Mind as you doan't hit 'em, measter; doant'ee shoot into a hole, you.' For half an hour we had some really good shooting: then it began to slacken, and we told him to catch his ferrets and go on to the next bury.

I am not sure that he would not have rebelled outright but just then a boy came up carrying a basket of provisions, and a large earthenware jar with a bung cork, full of humming ale.

Farmer Willum had sent this, and the strong liquor quite restored Little John's good humour.

It really was ale--such as is not to be got for money.
The boy said that he had seen Farmer Willum's hereditary enemy, the keeper, watching us from his side of the boundary, doubtless attracted by the sound of the firing.