its head, which had hung down toward the road, and the other skeleton-like creature in the cart threw up its tail with a sharp whisk that disturbed the flies which appeared to have already begun to make a meal upon its body, while the scattered drove of ragged ponies and horses ceased cropping the roadside herbage, and trotted on a few yards before beginning to eat again.

“They’re going on to some fair,” said Macey, as he looked curiously at the horses. “I say, you wouldn’t think anyone would buy such animals as those.”

“Want to buy a pony, young gentlemen?” said the man with the pipe, sidling up to them.

“What for?” said Macey sharply. “Scarecrow? We’re not farmers.”

The man grinned.

“And we don’t keep dogs,” continued Macey. “Oh, I say, George, you have got a pretty lot to-day.”

The gipsy frowned and gave his whip a crack.

“Only want cleaning up, master,” he said.

“Going to the fair?”

The man nodded and went on, for all this was said without the two lads stopping; and directly after, driving a miserable halting pony which could hardly get over the ground, a couple of big hulking lads of sixteen or seventeen appeared some fifty yards away.

“Oh, I say, Vane,” cried Macey; “there’s that chap you licked last year. You’ll see how he’ll smile at you.”

“I should like to do it again,” said Vane. “Look at them banging that poor pony about. What a shame it seems!”

“Yes. You ought to invent a machine for doing away with such chaps as these. They’re no good,” said Macey.

“Oh, you brute!—I say, don’t the poor beggar’s sides sound hollow!”

“Hollow! Yes,” cried Vane indignantly; “they never feed them, and that poor thing can’t find time to graze.”

“No. It will be a blessing for it when it’s turned into leather and glue.”

“Go that side, and do as I do,” whispered Vane; and they separated, and took opposite sides of the road, as the two gipsy lads stared hard at them, and as if to rouse their ire shouted at the wretched pony, and banged its ribs.

What followed was quickly done. Vane snatched at one stick and twisted it out of the lad’s hand nearest to him Macey followed suit, and the boys stared.

“It would serve you precious well right if I laid the stick about your shoulders,” cried Vane, breaking the ash sapling across his knee.

“Ditto, ditto,” cried Macey doing the same, and expecting an attack.

The lads looked astonished for the moment, but instead of resenting the act, trotted on after the pony, which had continued to advance; and, as soon as they were at a safe distance, one of them turned, put his hand to his mouth and shouted “yah!” while the other took out his knife and flourished it.

“Soon cut two more,” he cried.

“There!” said Macey, “deal of good you’ve done. The pony will only get it worse, and that’s another notch they’ve got against you.”

“Pish!” said Vane, contemptuously.

“Yes, it’s all very well to say pish; but suppose you come upon them some day when I’m not with you. Gipsies never forget, and you see if they don’t serve you out.”

Vane gave him a merry look, and Macey grinned.

“I hope you will always be with me to take care of me,” said Vane.

“Do my best, old fellow—do my best, little man. I say, though, do you mean me to come and have lunch?”

“It’ll be dinner to-day,” said Vane.

“But won’t your people mind?”

“Mind! no. Uncle and aunt both said I was to ask you to come as often as I liked. Uncle likes you.”

“No; does he?”

“Yes; says you’re such a rum fellow.”

“Oh!”

Macey was silent after that “oh,” and the silence lasted till they reached the manor, for Vane was thinking deeply about the quarrel that morning; but, as the former approached the house, he felt no misgivings about his being welcome, the doctor, who was in the garden, coming forward to welcome him warmly, and Mrs Lee, who heard the voices, hastening out to join them.

Ten minutes later they were at table, where Macey proved himself a pretty good trencherman till the plates were changed and Eliza brought in a dish and placed it before her mistress.

“Hum!” said the doctor, “only one pudding and no sweets. Why, Macey, they’re behaving shabbily to you to-day.”

Aunt Hannah looked puzzled, and Vane stared.

“Is there no tart or custard, Eliza?” asked the doctor.

“Yes, sir; both coming, sir,” said the maid, who was very red in the face.

“Then what have you there?”

Eliza made an unspellable noise in her throat, snatched off the cover from the dish, and hurried out of the room.

“Dear me!” said the doctor putting on his glasses, and looking at the dish in which, in the midst of a quantity of brownish sauce, there was a little island of blackish scraps, at which Aunt Hannah gazed blankly, spoon in hand.

“What is it, my dear?” continued the doctor.

“I’m afraid, dear, it is a dish of those fungi that Vane brought in this morning.”

“Oh, I see. You will try them, Macey?”

“Well, sir, I—”

“Of course he will, uncle. Have a taste, Aleck. Give him some, aunt.”

Aunt Hannah placed a portion upon their visitor’s plate, and Macey was wonderfully polite—waiting for other people to be served before he began.

“Oh, I say, aunt, take some too,” cried Vane.

“Do you wish it, my dear? Well, I will;” and Aunt Hannah helped herself, as the doctor began to turn his portion over; and Macey thought of poisoning, doctors, and narrow escapes, as he trifled with the contents of his plate.

“Humph!” said the doctor breaking a painful silence. “I’m afraid, Vane, that cook has made a mistake.”

“Mistake, sir?” cried Macey, eagerly; “then you think they are not wholesome?”

“Decidedly not,” said the doctor. “I suppose these are your chanterelles, Vane.”

“Don’t look like ’em, uncle.”

“No, my boy, they do not. I can’t find any though,” said the doctor, as he turned over his portion with his fork. “No: I was wrong.”

“They are not the chanterelles then, uncle?”

“Oh, yes, my boy, they are. I was afraid that Martha had had an accident with the fungi, and had prepared a substitute from my old shooting boots, but I can’t see either eyelet or nail. Can you?”

“Oh, my dear!” cried Aunt Hannah to her nephew; “do, pray, ring, and have them taken away. You really should not bring in such things to be cooked.”

“No, no: stop a moment,” said the doctor, as Macey grinned with delight; “let’s see first whether there is anything eatable.”

“It’s all like bits of shrivelled crackling,” said Vane, “only harder.”

“Yes,” said the doctor, “much. I’m afraid Martha did not like her job, and she has cooked these too much. No,” he added, after tasting, “this is certainly not a success. Now for the tart—that is, if our young friend Macey has quite finished his portion.”

“I haven’t begun, sir,” said the visitor.

“Then we will wait.”

“No, no, please sir, don’t. I feel as if I couldn’t eat a bit.”

“And I as if they were not meant to eat,” said the doctor, smiling. “Never mind, Vane; we’ll get aunt to cook the rest, or else you and I will experimentalise over a spirit lamp in the workshop, eh?”

“Yes, uncle, and we’ll have Macey there, and make him do all the tasting for being so malicious.”

“Tell me when it’s to be,” said Macey, grinning with delight at getting rid of his plate; “and I’ll arrange to be fetched home for a holiday.”