“It’s a little house,” said Mark, forgetting the quarrel. “Here’s some of the straw on the ground; they thatch it in winter and crawl under.” (It was about three feet high.) “I don’t know,” said Bevis. “I’m sure it is,” said Mark. “They are little men, the savages who live here, they’re pigmies, you know.” “So they are,” said Bevis, quite convinced, and likewise forgetting his temper. “Of course they are, and that’s why the path is so narrow. But I believe it’s not a house, I mean not a house to live in. It’s a place to worship at, where they have a fetich.” “I think it’s a house,” said Mark. “Then where’s the fireplace?” asked Bevis decidedly. “No more there is a fireplace,” said Mark thoughtfully. “It’s a fetich-place.” Bevis went on again, leaving the framework behind. Across those bars the barley was thrown in autumn for the pheasants, which feed by darting up and dragging down a single ear at a time; thus by keeping the barley off the ground there is less waste. They knew this very well. “Bevis,” said Mark presently. “Yes.” “Let’s leave this path.” “Why?” “Most likely we shall meet some savages--or perhaps a herd of wild beasts, they rush along these paths in the jungle and crush over everything--perhaps elephants.” “So they do,” said Bevis, and hastily stepped out of the path into the wood again. They went under more ash-poles where the pigeons’ nests were numerous; they counted five all in sight at once, and only a few yards apart, for they could not see far through the boughs. Some of the birds were sitting, others were not. Mark put up his spear and pushed one off her nest. There was a continual fluttering all round them as the pigeons came down to, or left their places. Never had they seen so many nests--they walked about under them for a long time, doing nothing but look up at them, and talk about them. “I know,” said Bevis, “I know--these savages here think the pigeons sacred, and don’t kill them--that’s why there are so many.” Not much looking where they were going, they came out into a space where the poles had been cut in the winter, and the stoles bore only young shoots a few feet high. There was a single waggon track, the ruts overhung with grasses and bordered with rushes, and at the end of it, where it turned, they saw a cock pheasant. They tried to go through between the stoles, but the thistles were too thick and the brambles and briars too many; they could flourish here till the ash-poles grew tall and kept away the sun. So they followed the waggon track, which led them again under the tall poles.