He wanted to go there and prowl.
He did not anticipate any definite outcome of his visit. In his
boyish, elemental way he just wanted to take a revolver and a
pocketful of cartridges, and prowl.
It was a great night for prowling. A moon so little less than full
that the eye could barely detect its slight tendency to become
concave, shone serenely, creating a desirable combination of black
shadows where the prowler might hide and great stretches of light
in which the prowler might reveal his wickedness without disguise.
Mr Pickering walked briskly along the road, then less briskly as
he drew nearer the farm. An opportune belt of shrubs that ran from
the gate adjoining the road to a point not far from the house gave
him just the cover he needed. He slipped into this belt of shrubs
and began to work his way through them.
Like generals, authors, artists, and others who, after planning
broad effects, have to get down to the detail work, he found that
this was where his troubles began. He had conceived the journey
through the shrubbery in rather an airy mood. He thought he would
just go through the shrubbery. He had not taken into account the
branches, the thorns, the occasional unexpected holes, and he was
both warm and dishevelled when he reached the end of it and found
himself out in the open within a short distance of what he
recognized as beehives.
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