He wore a ragged old coat with big patch pockets over a tattered waistcoat. His boots were tied up with string and there was a dirty cotton handkerchief round his neck.
Syringa standing facing him, her eyes on his, then said,
“Ben, show his Lordship what you have in your pocket.”
The old man glanced over his shoulder as if to be sure that the keepers were not too near and then from the pocket on his right hand side he drew out a small red squirrel.
He held it in his hands, then it ran up his arm and sat on his shoulder. He gave it a nut and the squirrel cracked it between his teeth, his little eyes glancing round curiously as he did so.
“And now in your other pocket,” Syringa said, her voice very low, hardly above a whisper.
Ben put his big hand into his pocket and drew out three sma
