Old clocks 'n apples
Tom stood at the top of the steps covered by centuries of moss, staring out across his newly acquired lands.
'Look at that. Mole hills everywhere. It's your job to get rid of them.' He said accusingly to the old man next to him.
'Take me forever to get rid of 'em all. That's a specialist's job, tha' is. Ask Bob and Bill down the Old Clocks 'n Apples.'
Half an hour later, Tom had walked up to the bar of the local pub, asked the surly publican where he could find the mole catching duo and was looking into the corner at a grimy potato sack, a muddy bucket and a long plastic pipe propped up beside two men in flat caps. Clink clink went the draughts on the board. Without looking up from the game, one of them said 'how may we be of 'sistance, Sor?' Tom raised his eyebrows for the merest second at the sales patter.
'I heard you can get rid of moles.'
'Tha's right. We catch 'em, then let 'em go.'
'You don't kill them?'
The men looked shocked.
'Kill 'em? No. We're 'umane catchers.'
'As long as you get rid of the blighters. Be at Harrington Court, 10 am tomorrow.'
Heads were nodded, caps were touched. The deal was made.
Next morning, Bill and Bob arrived on the dot. Bill moved towards the first hole, shoved the pipe down it and Bob positioned himself with bucket and bag further afield. Bill put his mouth to the pipe and an explosive sound reverberated throughout the grounds. Little brown creatures started scuttling out of the holes. Bob swooped in, expertly scooping them up and bagging them.
'What are you going to do with them?' asked Tom when all was done.
'Release them down in Puddington.'
'But they'll have a mole problem over there then?'
Tom watched as both men tapped the sides of their noses knowingly while making their way off the grounds with the bags of squirming moles and fifty quid.
'Look at that. Mole hills everywhere. It's your job to get rid of them.' He said accusingly to the old man next to him.
'Take me forever to get rid of 'em all. That's a specialist's job, tha' is. Ask Bob and Bill down the Old Clocks 'n Apples.'
Half an hour later, Tom had walked up to the bar of the local pub, asked the surly publican where he could find the mole catching duo and was looking into the corner at a grimy potato sack, a muddy bucket and a long plastic pipe propped up beside two men in flat caps. Clink clink went the draughts on the board. Without looking up from the game, one of them said 'how may we be of 'sistance, Sor?' Tom raised his eyebrows for the merest second at the sales patter.
'I heard you can get rid of moles.'
'Tha's right. We catch 'em, then let 'em go.'
'You don't kill them?'
The men looked shocked.
'Kill 'em? No. We're 'umane catchers.'
'As long as you get rid of the blighters. Be at Harrington Court, 10 am tomorrow.'
Heads were nodded, caps were touched. The deal was made.
Next morning, Bill and Bob arrived on the dot. Bill moved towards the first hole, shoved the pipe down it and Bob positioned himself with bucket and bag further afield. Bill put his mouth to the pipe and an explosive sound reverberated throughout the grounds. Little brown creatures started scuttling out of the holes. Bob swooped in, expertly scooping them up and bagging them.
'What are you going to do with them?' asked Tom when all was done.
'Release them down in Puddington.'
'But they'll have a mole problem over there then?'
Tom watched as both men tapped the sides of their noses knowingly while making their way off the grounds with the bags of squirming moles and fifty quid.
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