'Ain't it?' said Chippy. 'I'll race ye to th' end o' the copse an' back. That'll warm us a bit.' 'Right,' said Dick. 'Let's cut along where the larches and firs are. It'll be fun sprinting over the fir-needles, and soft to the feet. Where do we run to?' 'The big beech yonder,' said the Raven. 'I'll count. We'll go at three.' He counted, and away bounded the two scouts, racing at their fastest for the big beech which they were to touch, then to return to their fire. Now, the last thing they expected to have was a witness of their race. They believed that the copse was a lonely patch of wood on the lonely heath. So it was, save for one house which lay just beyond the wood where the ridge sloped away to the south. The house was that of a sheep-farmer, whose flocks fed over the moorland; and as the boys raced through the little wood, the shepherd left the farmsteading, where he had been sheltering from the storm, and came up through the copse to go about his business. The scouts did not see him, but he saw the scouts. For a few moments he watched the race, his mouth gaping wide in true rustic wonder; then he turned, and hastily retraced his steps to the farm. He burst into the kitchen, where the farmer and his wife were seated at a round table in front of the wide hearth, taking their tea. 'Maister! maister!' cried the shepherd, 'theer's two bwoys a-runnin' about i' the copse wi' ne'er a stitch on 'em.' 'What's that ye say, Diggory?' cried the farmer's wife. 'Ne'er a stitch on 'em, missis, a-runnin' about there like two pixies, they be. A' niver seed such a sight afore in a Christian land. 'Tis like haythens, on'y they be white uns 'stead o' black uns.' 'What do ye make of it, Tom?' said the farmer's wife to her husband. 'Maybe 'tis nought but his simple-minded talk,' replied the farmer, taking a huge bite out of a slice of bread-and-butter. 'No, maister,' cried the shepherd. ''Tis Gospel true, ivery word. Ne'er a stitch on 'em.' And he waved his left hand like an orator. Suddenly an angry flush sprang to the farmer's face, and he stood up. 'Then, 'tis gipsies!' he cried. 'I dunno,' said the shepherd. 'Brown they hain't, but white as milk.' 'I'll mark their white for 'em,' cried the farmer; and stepping quickly to the wall, he seized a long cart-whip which hung there, and strode from the house.