The moment he began to feed they began to shoot.

In vain did the enemy himself invest in a pea-shooter, and endeavour to answer the fire while he fed the young birds with his other hand; his attention was divided, and his shots flew wild, while every one of theirs told on his face and hands, and drove him into howlings and imprecations.

He had been driven to ensconce the nest in a corner of his already too-well-filled den.
His door was barricaded by a set of ingenious bolts of his own invention, for the sieges were frequent by the neighbours when any unusually ambrosial odour spread itself from the den to the neighbouring studies.

The door panels were in a normal state of smash, but the frame of the door resisted all besiegers, and behind it the owner carried on his varied pursuits--much in the same state of mind, I should fancy, as a border-farmer lived in, in the days of the moss-troopers, when his hold might be summoned or his cattle carried off at any minute of night or day.
"Open, Martin, old boy; it's only I, Tom Brown." "Oh, very well; stop a moment." One bolt went back.

"You're sure East isn't there ?" "No, no; hang it, open." Tom gave a kick, the other bolt creaked, and he entered the den.
Den indeed it was--about five feet six inches long by five wide, and seven feet high.