the stick, and then he begins to sing.”

“Oh, come!” I said, bursting out laughing.

“Well, squeal, then, ever so loud, and the louder he squeals, the harder you must rub.”

“But it hurts him.”

“Oh, not much. What’s a hedgehog that he isn’t to be hurt a bit! Boys get hurt pretty tidy here when the Doctor’s cross. Well, as soon as he squeals out, all the hedgehogs who hear him come running to see what’s the matter, and you get as many as you like, and put ’em in a hutch, but you mustn’t keep live things here, only on the sly. I had so many, the Doctor put a stop to all the boys keeping things, rabbits, and white mice, and all. That’s why I stuff.”

“What is?”

“Because you can keep frogs, and jays, and polecats, and snakes, and anything, and they don’t want to be fed.”

“What a nice cottage!” I said suddenly, as we came upon a red-brick, red-tiled place, nearly all over ivy.

“Yes, that’s Polly Hopley’s—and hi! there goes old Hopley.”

A man in a closely fitting cap and brown velveteen jacket, who was going down the road, faced round, took a gun from off his shoulder and placed it under his arm.

He was a big, burly, black-whiskered man, with brown face and dark eyes, and he showed his white teeth as he came slowly to meet us.

“Well, Master Mercer?” he said. “Why ain’t you joggryfing?”

“Whole holiday. New boy. This is him. Burr junior, this is Bob Hopley, General’s keeper. Chuck your cap up in the air, and he’ll make it full of shot-holes. He never misses.”

“Oh yes, I do,” said the keeper, shaking his head; “and don’t you do as he says. Charge of powder and shot’s too good to be wasted.”

“Oh, all right. I say, got anything for me?”

“No, not yet. I did knock over a hawk, but I cut his head off.”

“What for? With your knife?”

“No-o-o! Shot. You shall have the next. Don’t want a howl, I s’pose?”

“Yes, yes, a white one. Do shoot one for me, there’s a good chap.”

“Well, p’raps I may. I know where there’s a nest.”

“Do you? Oh, where?” cried Mercer. “I want to see one, so does he—this chap here.”

“Well, it’s in the pigeon-cote up agen Dawson’s oast-house, only he won’t have ’em touched.”

“What a shame!”

“Says they kills the young rats and mice. Like to go and see it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m going round by Rigg’s Spinney, and I’ll meet you at the farm gates. Jem Roff’ll let you go up if I ask him.”

“How long will you be?”

“Hour! Don’t forget!”

“Just as if we should!” cried Mercer, as the keeper shouldered his gun again and marched off. “It’s rather awkward, though.”

“What is?” I said.

“Being friends with Magglin and Bob Hopley too, because they hate each other awfully. But then, you see, it means natural history, don’t it?”

He looked at me as if he meant me to say it, so I said, “Yes.”

“An hour. What shall we do for an hour? ’Tisn’t long enough to go to the hammer pond, nor yet to hunt snakes, because we should get so interested that we should forget to come back. But, I say, would you rather go back to the school field, where the other chaps are, or come back and pick out your garden? We’ve all got gardens. Or have a game at rounders, or—”

“No, no no,” I said. “I like all this. It’s all new to me. I was never in the country like this before.”

“Then you do like it?”

“Of course.”

“That’s right. Then you will not mind old Rebble’s impositions, and the Doctor being disagreeable, and going at us, nor the boys pitching into you, as they all do—the big ones—when the Doctor’s pitched into them. Why, you don’t look so miserable now as you did.”

“Don’t I?”

“No. It’s awful coming away from home, I know, and I do get so tired of learning so many things. You do have to try so much to get to know anything at all. Now, let’s see what shall we do for an hour?”

“Go for a walk,” I suggested.

“Oh, that’s no good, without you’re going to do something. I know; we’ll go back and make Magg lend us his ferret, and then we’ll try for a rabbit.”

“Very well,” I said eagerly.

“No, that wouldn’t do, because his ferret’s such a beggar.”

“Is he?” I said.

“Yes; he goes into a hole in a bank and comes out somewhere else, far enough off, and you can’t find him, or else he goes in and finds a rabbit, and eats him, and then curls up for a sleep, and you waiting all the time. That wouldn’t do; there isn’t time enough. You want all day for that, and we’ve only got an hour. Wish I hadn’t said we’d go and see the owls.”

“Shall we sit down and wait?” I suggested.

“No, no. I can’t wait. I never could. It’s horrid having to wait. Here, I know. It’s lunch-time, and we’re here. Let’s go into Polly Hopley’s and eat cakes and drink ginger-beer till it’s time to go.”

“Very well,” I said, willingly enough, for walking had made me thirsty.

“I haven’t got any money, but Polly will trust me.”

“I’ve got some,” I ventured to observe.

“Ah, but you mustn’t spend that. You’ve got to help pay for the gun. Come on.—Here, Polly, two bottles of ginger-beer, and sixpenn’orth of bis— I say, got any fresh gingerbread?”

This was to a stoutish, dark-eyed woman of about one-and-twenty, as we entered the cottage, in one of whose windows there was a shelf with a row of bottles of sweets and a glass jar of biscuits.

“Yes, sir, quite new—fresh from Hastings,” said the girl eagerly. And she produced a box full of brown, shiny-topped squares.

“Was it some of this old Dicksee had yesterday?” said Mercer.

“Yes, sir. I opened the fresh box for him, and he had four tuppenny bits.”

“Then we will not,” said my companion sharply. “Let’s have biscuits instead.”

The biscuits were placed before us, and the keeper’s daughter then took a couple of tied-down stone bottles from a shelf.

“I say,” cried Mercer, “I didn’t introduce you. Burr junior, this is Polly Hopley. Polly, this is—”

“Yes, sir, I know. I heard you tell father,” said the woman quickly, as she cut the string.

Pop!

Out came the opal-looking, bubbling liquid into a grey mug covered with stripes, and then Pop! again, and a mug was filled for my companion, ready for us to nod at each other and take a deep draught of the delicious brewing—that carefully home-made ginger-beer of fifty years ago—so mildly effervescent that it could be preserved in a stone bottle, and its cork held with a string. A very different beverage to the steam-engine-made water fireworks, all wind, fizzle, cayenne pepper, and bang, that is sold now under the name.

“Polly makes this herself on purpose for us,” said Mercer importantly. “We boys drink it all.”

“And don’t always pay for it,” said Polly sharply.

I saw Mercer’s face change, and I recalled what he had said about credit.

“Why—er—” he began.

“Oh, I don’t mean you, sir, and I won’t mention any names, but I think young gen’lemen as drinks our ginger-beer ought to pay, and father says so too.”

I glanced at Mercer, whose face was now scarlet, and, seeing that he was thinking about what he had said respecting credit, I quietly slipped my hand into my pocket and got hold of a shilling.

“It is beautiful ginger-beer,” I said, after another draught.

“Beautiful,” said Mercer dismally, but he gave quite a start and then his eyes shone brightly as he glanced at me gratefully, for I had handed the shilling to the keeper’s daughter, who took it to a jug on the chimney-piece, dropped it in, and then shook out some half-pence from a cracked glass