The first match he struck promptly and naturally went out. No first
match ever stays alight for more than three-fifths of a second. The
second was more successful. The sudden light dazzled him for a moment.
When his eyes had grown accustomed to it, the match went out. He lit a
third, and this time he saw all round the little chamber. 'Great
Scott,' he said, 'the place is a regular poultry shop.' All round the
sides were hung pheasants and partridges in various stages of maturity.
Here and there the fur of a rabbit or a hare showed up amongst the
feathers. Barrett hit on the solution of the problem directly. He had
been shown a similar collection once in a tree on his father's land.
The place was the headquarters of some poacher. Barrett was full of
admiration for the ingenuity of the man in finding so safe a
hiding-place.
He continued his search. In one angle of the tree was a piece of
sacking. Barrett lifted it. He caught a glimpse of something bright,
but before he could confirm the vague suspicion that flashed upon him,
his match burnt down and lay smouldering on the floor.
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