Beyond the Hills

CHAPTER I

THE BECKONING HILLS

Just across the water they lay, such a little way beyond the opposite bank of the broad, golden river. If you sat on the old wall at the foot of the garden you could see the whole long range of them, so tantalizingly near, so altogether unattainable. True, you always had the river; you had merely to run down the hill, scramble across a meadow and through a gap in the hedge, and it was there, with all its many moods, awaiting you. True, also, a very little walk would bring you to the hilly forest country, but then both river and forest were part of the everyday life and how can you find romance or adventure except you go out to seek it in the Unknown?

For it was the Unknown that attracted the three children, more especially the two elder ones. Not only the hills themselves in their shadowy, mystic beauty, but what lay beyond them—the great open, unexplored world where adventure would surely come leaping towards you. To find the open world, to know Adventure! For how could anything interesting ever happen if you just played in a garden or a paddock, or strained your eyes down the river or across the hills, simply wondering, wondering?

There was more than one influence at work on the children to stir them to action. To begin with, there was that wander-blood in their veins that had sent their young Uncle Val wandering over the face of the earth. And then there was the river, the broad, gleaming river—an everyday river, of course, but was it not rushing swiftly to the sea and the open world? Had not Uncle Val himself told them how it had called men to great adventures? Sir Walter Raleigh, for instance. Sir Walter Raleigh, Billy's hero, was perhaps the biggest influence of all at work on the children. For, though this was not Devonshire, he had at one time inhabited the beautiful old house above the Gleam in which the children lived. Probably it was he who had whispered to Uncle Val of the Unknown, but whether that was so or not Uncle Val, in his brief home visits, was never tired of telling the children of the noble gentleman who had left his presence in the riverside house. He would make them see pictures of Sir Walter seated in the oak-panelled dining-room with perhaps Sir Francis Drake and other adventurers as his guests, planning their expeditions into the unexplored world; or again, sauntering slowly down the drive and pausing at the white gate to look with half-closed eyes down the Gleam towards the sea, sniffing the salt in the wind that blew up the river, hearing its call to him as it soughed through the tall elms along the drive.

And then there was Stevenson. It was Aunt Letty who was responsible for introducing them to him and inspiring them with love and admiration for the man who was known in Samoa by that pretty name Tusitala. At least, Nancy, whose imagination quickly leaped towards any word that had poetry in it, any new and interesting word, found it pretty; indeed, there were many words in the passages Aunt Letty read to them from Stevenson that appealed to her. Caryatides! That was a word to make poetry of inside yourself and repeat over and over again until you had made it your very own.

Billy, on the other hand was more interested in Stevenson the man than in Stevenson the writer. His adventures in the Arethusa, his wanderings with Modestine, above all, perhaps, his life in those fascinating South Sea Islands appealed strongly to Billy. And the chief charm about all the adventures lay in the fact that they were real; they were not just a story book; Stevenson had actually lived what he described, had gone out to meet adventure just as he, Billy, longed so passionately to do.

Things came to a head one evening, while they were watching old Daddy Petherham drifting down the tide towards the sea.

"Wouldn't you think he'd get tired of fishing round here every day?" said Billy. "Wouldn't you s'pose he'd just have to go a little further and a little further and then right out to sea? Wouldn't you think he'd want to know what it's like out there and sail away till he came to other countries and foreign people? I should if I were Daddy Petherham."

"No, not if you were Daddy Petherham you wouldn't," Nancy replied. "I'm sure he wouldn't like not to sit in his doorway and smoke and watch his grandchildren playing. And wouldn't it be funny not to see him sitting sometimes on the bench outside the 'Anchor' shaking his head in that funny way of his at the young fishermen? It's queer, but I always think of Daddy Petherham as part of Nestcombe; he's kind of grown into it."

"Well," Billy replied, "I shouldn't want to live in a village till I'd grown to be one of the fixtures, would you?"

"No," Nancy replied thoughtfully, "I don't think I should. I—I want, I want—oh, it's not easy to put into words just what I want."

"I know what I want," Billy replied, decidedly. "I want to have adventure, lots of it, and how can we if we just stay here? Don't you both feel," he added eagerly, "that we must have one? Let's go somewhere. We haven't got a boat so we can't sail away as Daddy Petherham could if he wanted to, but—but how shall we go, Nancy?"

Nancy, who had been seeing visions of the wants that would not go into words ("dweaming dweams," as she used to call them when she was a little girl), came back to earth and stared at Billy.

"Do you mean it really, Billy?" she asked slowly.

"Do you mean a long, long way?" little Mavis added. "And see lots and lots of pretty places?"

"Yes, really and truly, a long, long way—where we've never been before!"

Now, it is quite probable that neither Nancy nor Mavis felt at that moment any imperative need in them to leave their happy home, for Mavis was a "home" child and Nancy, with her vivid imagination, could leave it at will to wander in a "Never Never Land," but if Billy wanted to go, why, then of course they wanted to go, too, for that one should do anything important without the other two was as impossible as for old Daddy Petherham not to sit year in, year out, smoking by his cottage door.

And, since it was decided that something must be done, both the girls entered with eager interest into Billy's plans.

"Would it do for us to have kind of travels with a donkey?" Nancy asked. "We've got Ladybird. There aren't any mountains, but there are the hills over there. Oh, Billy, I would like to see the other side of the hills; I kind of feel there's some wonderful land hidden away behind them. Could we get as far, do you think? It's a long way, isn't it? We'd have to go to Gleambridge and cross the river there and then we'd begin to be in the hills, wouldn't we? Oh, Billy, could we ever get there?"

Gleambridge, the county town, was a quite familiar place to the children. It is one thing to go there by train with grown-ups on shopping expeditions, but to go by road through unexplored country towards a city that is the gateway of the land of your dreams—that is something quite different. The train journey leads you to tailors and drapers and dentists, well, and perhaps to cakes and ice-creams, and yes, of course, the cathedral; but the dusty, winding road leads you straight to a world of romance, out of which rises the fair tower of the cathedral, and beyond it and above it and around it the entrancing hills. Should they, could they go?

Thus it was decided. They would go for a week; not longer, as little Mavis thought that quite long enough to be away from "Muvee." They would leave a note of explanation assuring the grown-ups that there was no need to worry, and they would take Ladybird, their very own donkey, with them. This, of course, would occasion a re-christening ceremony, for though "Ladybird" was the nicest name imaginable for a little home donkey, for one who was to seek with them the open world nothing but "Modestine" would satisfy the young adventurers.

CHAPTER II

GREAT-AUNT HEWLETT

With fingers that trembled because of his excitement Billy fastened the strap of Modestine's girth.

"That's right! Now let's fix the blankets on. You help me, Nancy—I don't quite know how they should go."

Nancy handed the basket of provisions to Mavis and ran to Billy's assistance. It was one thing to harness a donkey you had tended and coddled for two years, but to fasten a not very tidy bundle of blankets on to the saddle when you were almost dancing with excitement was not quite so easy. Nancy when she had finished, eyed her work doubtfully. Somehow, it did not look exactly professional.

"We really ought to have had sleeping sacks like Stevenson," she said; "but then, he had more money to buy them with than we had, I s'pect."

With only nineteen shillings to feed and sleep three of you—and a donkey—for a whole week, sleeping sacks were a luxury not to be indulged in.

Their simple preparations did not take long to complete, yet many anxious glances were cast at the house while they were in progress. Supposing they were discovered? Supposing Modestine should bray, supposing——

"Oh, quick! Let's start right away!" Billy whispered. "I'll haul you into the saddle now, Mavis. Are you ready, Nancy? Come on!"

Very quietly the little procession crept down the drive and passed out into the road. Nancy and Mavis each gave one wistful glance back at the house where all was so still. If only the grown-ups could have come, too! Was it too late even now to go back and ask them to come? Why, up to this moment had there been that quite definite though unspoken thought in each child's mind that adventure such as they were seeking was something those belonging to the grown-up world could not understand, would not appreciate? Their grown-ups were all such pals. After all——

Nancy glanced hesitatingly at Billy, but she said nothing, for his unyielding back, his steady, plodding walk, and the way his head was thrown back told her that he was pushing every bit of feeling and regret away from him. They had planned the adventure, they must be brave and go on—they must find what lay beyond the hills; all this Nancy read in Billy's attitude, and, knowing her brother, she fell into step by Modestine and buried her own regrets.

It was not yet six o'clock, but they pushed on hurriedly as, until they were the other side of Riversham, a small country town a few miles off on the Gleambridge road, they were likely to encounter people who knew them. Better, they decided, to get beyond familiar places while folks were yet a-bed.

"See! We're nearly at Nestcombe," Nancy said. "Modestine, dear," she continued, addressing the donkey, "please don't do anything naughty until we are past the cottages. There's people up, I know, 'cos there's smoke coming out of the chimneys, so don't 'tract their attention, will you?"

Modestine plodded on, wearing her most angelic expression. She was a creature of vagaries; at least, that is how a man who used to come to see Aunt Letty—our "nearly-Uncle Jim" as the children called him—described her, and the children, though the word hitherto had been an unfamiliar one, felt that it described their Ladybird exactly—so naughty and yet so lovable.

This morning, so far, the quiet, innocent mood was uppermost, whether because she felt the honour of her new name or because these early-in-the-morning happenings had taken her by surprise the children could not decide.

Nestcombe, the lovely little fishing hamlet on the outskirts of which their home was situated, consisted of a row of about a dozen cottages, a few outlying farms, and another handful of cottages in a lane branching off from the main road down to the riverside.

"Look!" Mavis whispered, as they passed the top of this lane, "there's old Daddy Petherham going down to the river. He's too deaf to hear us, but I do hope he doesn't look round."

The old man, however, shuffled slowly and unheedingly down the lane, his eyes turned towards the river, and, a moment later, the children were through the village making their way towards Nestley.

"Wasn't the river sparkly and golden!" Nancy said. "And, oh, isn't the morning sparkly, too! At least, I think it's going to be—look at that bit of goldy-pink in the sky."

"It's cold, though," Mavis said, shivering a little. "I'm glad we wore our knitted frocks."

Nancy's face puckered with contrition. She had forgotten that Mavis would be cold riding and insisted on stopping while the child put on her waterproof cloak.

"That's it. You'll soon be warm now, won't you? Come on, Modestine, we're ready, old lady."

Modestine, who had rested her head on Billy's shoulder during the halt, was annoyed at being disturbed and planted her legs firmly where she stood.

"Come on, Modestine, dear," Billy urged anxiously. "Ladybird, gee-up! Oh, do hurry, Ladybird! We won't even get to Nestley, leave alone Riversham, before lots of people are about, at this rate. Could you make her move, Mavis?"

Mavis did her best, but when Modestine's mind was made up it took more than the little girl's feeble strength to budge her. On each side of the obstinate creature Nancy and Billy pulled with no result. Next, Nancy pulled and Billy pushed from behind; they gained a few inches, but that was all. They pleaded and coaxed, they told her their frank opinion of her, they wished they had not allowed her to share in their adventure, they even threatened to leave her there in the middle of the road, still Modestine stood immovable.

Suddenly, she lifted up her head and gave forth a terrific bray. All the troubles of every donkey in the world seemed to be voiced in that bray.

"Now you've done it!" Billy cried indignantly. "Be quiet, for goodness' sake, Ladybird. Shut up, I say!"

Almost before the words were out of his mouth Mavis had whipped off her cloak and flung it over the traitor's head. Modestine, surprised at the interruption, hesitated, shook the cloak off, and then suddenly trotted gently down the road.

Mavis turned in the saddle and waved her hand.

"She's all right now. I'll wait for you on the Riversham road if she keeps this up. Good-bye!"

Billy picked up the cloak and together he and Nancy briskly followed the fast-disappearing donkey.

They would only have one house to pass now before reaching Nestley, and though they glanced round occasionally to see whether anyone was in sight, they felt that they might safely give themselves up to the thrill of having really started out on their adventure.

And what a morning on which to set out towards the Unknown! The pink and gold was spreading across the sky, the birds were rhapsodizing, and the air had that clean taste that belongs to the early morning.

Ah, here was Mill End, and there were the vast orchards of Brook House, with the brook meandering through them. Not far to Nestley now!

The church clock was striking a quarter to seven as they turned into the village street.

"Look! Mavis is nearly at the top of the street," Nancy whispered. "I do hope she gets past Aunt Hewlett's safely."

Great-Aunt Hewlett's trim white house stood at the top of the village, just beyond the church. It was the last house they would pass before the road forked off to Riversham.

The children watched Modestine anxiously, fearing that she might want to stop at the gate; for though Great-Aunt Hewlett was far too stern an old lady to coax a donkey with luxuries there were those of her household who spoiled the pretty animal. Would Modestine remember and refuse to pass the house?

Their fears, however, were groundless, and Mavis turned and waved a triumphant hand before she disappeared round the high wall of Aunt Hewlett's garden.

"Doesn't the bread smell good?" Billy said, sniffing in the delicious scent that came from the bakehouse across the road. "I could eat a huge chunk of new bread—I'm fearfully hungry."

They both were, for though they had drunk some milk before starting they had all been too excited to eat more than a couple of biscuits each and such meagre fare could not sustain healthy children in the fresh morning air for very long.

The good, wholesome scent followed them as they hurried up the street, and I am afraid it occupied so large a place in their thoughts that they had none to give to the pretty village through which they were passing. Probably, however, in any case, they would have been blind to the beauties of the place; for Nestley was familiar ground and was something to be left behind as soon as might be. That they were hurrying with unseeing eyes through one of the prettiest villages in England they did not know. Indeed, what would it have mattered to them if it had been the prettiest village in the world? Were they not out to seek adventure, and how could it begin until you had left every trace of everyday places and people behind you?

Nestley, snuggling in the heart of rich meadows and orchards, with the brook gurgling down the centre of the street, and the houses growing over the brook, and the forest rising up beyond the village; oh, yes, it was all dear and pretty, but it was a home-place, just as Daddy Petherham was a home person. Just how pretty the home village is you cannot know until you have travelled away from it and have seen it with your imagination eyes. Just how dear it is you cannot realize, if you are an adventure-person, until far away from it you feel its influence and your heart aches for the familiar things that are Home.

And so, with more appreciation of Nestley's bakery than of its beauties, Nancy and Billy proceeded up the steep little street, glancing anxiously at Aunt Hewlett's trim windows. Aunt Hewlett, unfortunately, was a very early riser—would they get by safely?

"There she is!" Billy groaned.

Yes, there was Aunt Hewlett, tall and neat and stately and uncompromisingly stern, in a stiff black frock and white cuffs and collar and apron.

And she was beckoning them.

True, she was used to their early morning rambles and might not suspect anything, but Mavis was waiting for them and, besides, every moment of these early morning hours before they were likely to be missed, counted.

Wishing they could have pretended not to see her, and trying not to look too terribly guilty, they advanced up the path.

"Good-morning, Aunt," they said meekly.

The old lady looked down at them.

"Another of these morning walks!" she ejaculated, with a sniff. "Ridiculous nonsense!" She paused, and looked at Nancy.

Now most people knew her for a very severe old lady; nevertheless, behind her outward severity there was a very big spark of kindness, a large share of which she gave to Nancy. There was something about the child's face that bothered the shrewd old lady.

"Too tender, too sympathetic," she would blurt out to Nancy's mother. "Too interested in other people and their troubles—bothers herself too much about them—let the world take care of itself, I say!"

Yet, though she might leave the world to look after itself, Great-Aunt Hewlett often went out of her way to spoil Nancy.

"Could you eat a hot buttered batch cake?" she asked in her severest tone. "Suppose the boy would like one, too! Come in, both of you—and wipe your shoes well; Lizzie's just washed the tiles."

"Oh, please, Aunt, I don't think we could eat one this morning, could we, Billy?" Nancy replied hastily. "You see, we had some milk and biscuits before we started."

"Eh?" Aunt Hewlett cried in astonishment. "Not eat one of Lizzie's batch cakes? What's the matter with the children? Aren't they good enough for you?"

"Oh, Aunt Hewlett, they're the nicest batch cakes we've ever tasted, but we're just not hungry this morning, thank you."

"Not hungry? Stuff and nonsense! Come along in and let's hear no more about it."

The children, realizing that the safest and quickest plan would be to accept the batch cakes, followed Aunt Hewlett down the wide, cool hall to the kitchen. As a rule, Aunt Hewlett's house held a great fascination for them. It was so silent, so awe-inspiring, so altogether different from their own jolly home. Even the stately Persian cat was different from their own mongrel cats and kittens. And there was a scent, too, about the house that you could hardly define. You could not be sure whether it was beeswax or whether it belonged to the creepers on the tiled verandah, or to the scented geraniums, or the blue and gold potpourri bowl in the drawing-room where you always felt afraid of smashing the spindly legs of the chairs.

This morning, however, the children even forgot to walk on tip-toe (you always walked tip-toe in that tiled hall), so engrossed were they in planning how to get away quickly without arousing Aunt Hewlett's suspicions or offending her.

Lizzie, Aunt Hewlett's old maid, and, incidentally the children's and Ladybird's friend, was putting the last loaf into the oven as they entered the kitchen, and, on the table, were half a dozen golden oven or batch cakes just asking to be eaten. If the scent from Mr. Philpott's bakery had been tantalizingly fragrant, the scent here was a hundred times more so. Yet, though less than five minutes had passed since they had been aching for new bread, now that they could eat their fill all desire for it had fled.

Very deliberately Aunt Hewlett split open a couple of the golden bread cakes and spread them generously with butter.

"One between us would be enough, thank you, Aunt," Nancy ventured meekly, but Aunt Hewlett waved the suggestion aside.

"It's over two miles home if you're going back round by Etley, and if you can't eat a batch cake a-piece and be ready for a hearty breakfast when you reach home, well, all I can say is that the modern child is made of poorer stuff than the children of my generation. In my young days we'd have said 'thank you' and no more words about it."

Aunt Hewlett tossed her proud old head and her eyes flashed as she thought of the splendid stock the world produced eighty years ago. "Nothing finicky about us, I can assure you, my dear."

"Oh, Aunt," Nancy pleaded, fearing that she had hurt her, "we're not finicky, really, are we, Billy? Only——" She paused tremulously.

Billy glanced at her anxiously. Would she be a sport and play her part bravely? Knowing her tender heart he was a little doubtful. Suddenly, he threw back his head just as he had done when he had closed the home gate behind them. Here, at the very outset of their adventures was something that called forth his fighting instincts. Billy met it with ready response—he would take charge of the situation.

He took a huge bite out of his batch cake and, to his own surprise, as well as Aunt Hewlett's, grinned up at her with an adorable cheekiness.

"Looks as though we like them, doesn't it, Aunt? And can I have another, please, when I've finished this? Lizzie shouldn't make them so nice. Or shall I take it for Mavis—she's just on in front, and p'raps we'd better hurry else she'll think we're lost or something."

Mentioning Mavis he felt was thrillingly dangerous. Aunt Hewlett might make enquiries, and somehow or other the enquiries would have to be avoided, but the spirit of adventure was awakened in him, and he was ready to tackle any difficulty.

"Hum! So that's why you weren't hungry, I suppose," Aunt Hewlett replied. "Been quarrelling with her, have you? Six to one and half a dozen to the other, of course!"

"Oh, no, Aunt," Billy replied, "we've not quarrelled—she just went quicker, that's all. I've finished my batch cake," he added with an insinuating grin. "It was ripping!"

Aunt Hewlett, pleased that the batch cakes should be so appreciated, split open the remaining three, and, telling Lizzie to bring a paper bag, set to and buttered them.

Nancy, meanwhile, was struggling hard with hers. As Aunt Hewlett's back was turned Billy signed to her to break off the bigger portion and slip it under Mavis' cloak.

"Well," said Aunt Hewlett, "here you are, and those that think they won't spoil their breakfast can eat them going along. Nancy seems to have lost both her appetite and her tongue to-day—and William," she added, "seems to have found both."

The half-hurt, half-puzzled look on the stern old face worried Nancy. She wished with all her heart that she could explain matters, but that was impossible she knew, without giving Billy away. Yet, what must Aunt Hewlett think of her? Usually it was she, Nancy, who chattered freely and confidingly to the old lady whose sternness she could see behind while Mavis and Billy stood by in awed silence. And now to-day——

She ran toward her aunt and kissed her impulsively.

"Auntie dear, I do love you," she said, "and I love the batch cakes and next time I'll talk lots and lots to you. Please don't not love me. Good-bye!" and, with tears very near her eyes, she fled from the house, Billy following.

"Well!" ejaculated Aunt Hewlett. For quite three minutes she stood where they had left her, thinking—and feeling again a pair of little arms round her neck. "Well, well!" she added, and then left the kitchen to go about her household duties.

Meanwhile, Nancy and Billy were flying round the corner to the Riversham road with all sorts of thoughts and feelings, jogging against each other as they ran.

They found Mavis seated on the top of a high stone stile, her arms round Modestine, her head pillowed on her neck. She opened her eyes very sleepily when they approached, and smiled.

"You seemed such a long time," she explained, "so I just closed my eyes. Why, what have you got there, Billy. It smells like new bread!"

"It is," Billy replied, "and some of it's for you."

They explained the cause of their delay to Mavis, a delay of which the child had fortunately been unconscious, as she had been longer in the Land of Nod than she had at all realized, as they trudged along the Riversham road, munching some of the delicious batch cakes.

"Let's keep the other two until we get through Riversham," Nancy suggested. "P'raps we might stop for a little rest then."

"Yes, and have our breakfast. 'Cording to Aunt Hewlett we ought to be jolly well ready for it!" Billy replied, with a grin. "'Sides," he added, "I didn't get the full benefit of the one I ate in the kitchen, I'm sure—didn't I bolt it just!"

CHAPTER III

THE LIBATION MAN

Between Nestley and Riversham, after the village school was passed, were only one or two large houses standing well back from the road, consequently the children felt free to give themselves up to the joyous freshness of the morning and step out to meet adventure with a song not only in their hearts, but on their lips.

Fortunately, Modestine not only liked music, but seemed invigorated by it and set out so briskly at times that Nancy and Billy had much ado to keep pace with her. If the song died away she would fall into her usual jog-trot, but Billy had simply to run in front and sing his lustiest and Modestine would respond with pricked-up ears and a quickened pace.

Presently, however, they drew near to Riversham and the singing ceased.

"Let's get through as quickly as possible," Billy said, "and let's hope Modestine behaves herself. If she sits down in the middle of the street as she did that time when we brought her in the cart—you remember?—well, there'll be a crowd and good-bye to our adventure!"

With beating hearts they approached the sleepy little country town. The church stood on a hill to the right and they glanced up anxiously at the clock. Not quite nine o'clock—good—people would not be abroad shopping yet.

"I forgot to wind my watch up last night," Mavis said. "It's stopped."

With much pride she wound up the watch, for it was one that she had recently won at Billy's school sports; the only watch between them, too, and they were depending on it. There might not always be church clocks and somehow, even on an adventure, it would seem strange to be timeless.

Riversham consisted mainly of one broad street stretching from one end of the town to the other. What activity there was amongst the inhabitants was apparently taking place indoors; a few small boys were scattered about; the butcher, like all butchers, was dashing recklessly down the centre of the street; the milkman ambled after him. An assistant in the draper's shop under the trees glanced up idly, but curiosity evidently not being her strong point, she scarcely gave them a second glance.

"Do let's rest soon," Nancy said, "I'm getting a little tired, aren't you?"

Billy would not admit that he was, but he owned that he was ready to justify Aunt Hewlett's belief in him, so, when at the further end of the town they found a narrow lane branching off to the left, they decided to take it; it might have a suitable halting place tucked away in some unobtrusive corner.

"But we'll get back on to the Gleambridge road presently, won't we?" Nancy said. "This is a forest road and it's the hills, not the forest we want, isn't it?"

"Yes, we know all about the forest," Billy replied, "inside and out, so of course it's the hills we'll make for."

This, in spite of the fact that every step was taking them nearer to the deep heart of the forest, to a beauty and grandeur that was constantly changing. This great friendly forest, with its harmonies of sound and colour, this sheltering forest, with its unseen yet familiar voices, how were they to know that in rejecting it, they were rejecting something that was a part of themselves, just as Daddy Petherham was a part of Nestcombe?

In a little while they came to a meadow, and beyond the meadow, with a gate leading invitingly into it, was a wood; a very suitable halting-place, they decided, and without a second thought—for trespassing never troubled our young adventurers—entered it.

Billy paused as they were shutting the gate and looked at the little town in the valley and the peeps of golden river between its chimney-pots. Just across that river were the hills and to reach them they must tramp all the way to Gleambridge first.

"Wish we could have gone by the Riversham ferry," he said regretfully, "it'd have cut off miles, but the old man might ask questions—p'raps he wouldn't take us. Better stick to the road, I s'pose, though it's another sixteen miles."

"Shall we get there to-day?" Mavis asked. "'Course you must both take turns in riding Modestine, 'cos I'm nearly seven and needn't ride all the way. Shall we sleep at Gleambridge or in a wood?" she added, as they made their way across the meadow.

"I don't know," Nancy replied. "'Sides, a lot depends on Modestine."

Modestine, when they reached the wood, stood with her most angelic expression while they removed the blankets and provision basket to ease her for a while.

"Don't forget to take the bit out of her mouth, Billy," Nancy reminded him as he was loosening her girth, while she and Mavis unpacked the provisions.

It did not take two hungry little girls very long to spread out the breakfast for which they were all longing.

"Oh, Modestine! Look out, both of you!"

Nancy and Mavis turned at Billy's cry to see Modestine dashing towards them, and they too uttered a cry as she took a flying leap over the food they had spread on the grass.

"An' she hasn't even knocked the lemonade over!" Mavis cried, and there was a little secret admiration in her voice; Modestine, you see, in spite of her naughtiness was so dear.

"A jolly good thing for her!" Billy said. "And now we've got to catch her!" he added ruefully.

They looked longingly at the tempting food and hesitated. Should they let her roam until they had satisfied their hunger? It was a lonely spot and nobody was likely to come, and yet—well, though they never had the slightest fear of trespassing, it was an unwritten rule with them that gates should always be closed after them, and that no damage should be done in any way.

"An' if we let her roam you never know what might happen!" They sighed, and gave themselves up to a breathless quarter of an hour's coaxing and cajoling. At the end of that time, Modestine, apparently tired of the game, submitted herself to Nancy, rubbing herself affectionately against the child as she tethered her to the gate leading into the wood.

"And now we can have breakfast!" Billy said with a sigh of contentment.

How good the food tasted up here on the forest road—the first breakfast they had eaten in a meadow—so different from ordinary out-of-doors meals. Picnics lead you nowhere—this meal——

"It's kind of the beginning of the adventure, isn't it?" Nancy said. "The christening feast. No—no, don't laugh at me, I didn't mean that. What's the word I want? Celebration, no, not 'xactly. Don't talk to me for a minute, I'll see it inside me presently. I do wish words wouldn't run away just when you want them. Initiation? No, that doesn't sound quite right." She shook her head and frowned. "Can't you think of it, Billy?"

"Me?" Billy asked, with a chuckle. "No, I don't know long words, an' I'm far too hungry to bother about them. Don't you want some more to eat, Nancy?"

Nancy took the huge slice of bread and butter Mavis passed her and ate it absently.

"I'll have to let it go just now," she sighed. "But don't you think we should offer up something to the God of Adventure? There's a word for that, too; what you offer, I mean. Li—li——Oh, I wish Aunt Letty were here, she'd know both words. Li—— I've got it! Libation!"

"Oh, look!" whispered Mavis hurriedly. "Look behind you!"

"BY Jingo!" Billy exclaimed.

Nancy came down to earth with a start to see coming towards them through the wood, two men, and a dog which evidently belonged to the younger of the two. The elder man was a gamekeeper, Nancy decided swiftly, but his companion—was he a farmer and would he be cross and turn them out? She studied his face intently as he approached, and read there not only surprise but interest. Nancy liked him immediately and instinctively she felt that, if he was a farmer, he was something more besides; his interests extended beyond sheep and the price of corn she was sure—not, of course, that she got as far as expressing the thought quite as definitely as this. She just knew.

Billy, meanwhile, had whistled to the dog, who, after sniffing round the boy was evidently satisfied that he was a person one could know, and allowed himself to be fed with biscuits.

Now, if you were a gamekeeper and you came suddenly upon three children and a donkey calmly settled upon the preserves for which you were responsible, the one idea in your mind would be to turn the whole party out as speedily as might be with perhaps a lengthy and fear-raising monologue thrown in, as to the inadvisability of trespassing. And if you were a gamekeeper and alone, that is what you would do; that is what your duty as a gamekeeper told you you should do; that is what you were absolutely tingling to do in spite of the restraining hand of a youthful master.

But if you were the owner of the preserves, and, if on a summer morning with happy, laughing skies above you, you came upon a picture of startling interest and beauty, if the youth dancing in your veins shouted to you that the picture was a part of the glory of the morning? If the picture dissected resolved itself into a dainty, golden-haired fairy with a bloom on her cheeks like that of a ripe peach; a boy with mischievous, laughing eyes, and a dreamy child with chestnut hair who had searched the recesses of an apparently not empty little mind and brought forth in triumph the word "libation"! And last, but not least, a donkey tethered to the gate through which you were intending to pass? If, too, you were more interested in human nature than in your preserves; if there was about each child something that suggested more than an everyday picnic, if an intense desire burned in you for enlightenment?

Mavis leaned forward and stroked the dog.

"Isn't he a dear and isn't he friendly? Is he your little dog?" she asked, smiling up into the gamekeeper's taciturn face.

"No," he replied laconically.

Meanwhile, the owner was standing with his hand on the gate in a tentative attitude.

"Oh, Billy, Modestine's in the way!" Nancy exclaimed. "Do move him. I'm sorry," she added, smiling apologetically at the owner. "We thought we'd better tether her, you see. She's generally good, but one never can be sure of her."

"I see," the owner replied gravely. "And has anyone given you permission to picnic here, may I ask?"

"We're not picnicking," she replied promptly, "were just——" She paused at a warning glance from Billy. "Why no," she continued, "there was nobody to ask; but, you see, it was pretty and we were tired and hungry, and we don't ever do any damage when we trespass, do we?" she added, appealing to Billy and Mavis.

"No, and we always shut gates," Billy replied, as he opened the gate.

The gamekeeper, with a grumble all over his face, passed through without a "thank you." His companion followed, but seemed in no hurry to leave the little group.

"Isn't it rather early to be tired and hungry?" he enquired, with a puzzled glance at the remains of the meal.

"Not if you're adventurers," Nancy replied. "You see, you get too excited to eat anything before you start."

"And what exactly is an adventurer?" the owner asked, digging his stick into the ground and leaning comfortably on it. "And what does an adventurer do?"

Nancy hesitated.

"Why," she replied, looking over Riversham to the hills beyond the river, "isn't it somebody who wants to find something? Something they've wanted and wanted an' at last they feel they have to go and find it, don't they, Billy?"

"Yes," said Billy, throwing back his head, "they have to go!"

"But what do they do?" the owner repeated.

"Oh, lots of things," Billy responded eagerly. "Just anything. They don't mind what it is as long as it's part of the adventure."

"Only it mustn't be an everyday kind of thing, you know," Nancy explained.

The gamekeeper was growing impatient and was clearly in a hurry to be off. Since the children were not to be turned out he could see little use in standing there talking to them; such absurd talk, too. His master, seeing his impatience, signed to him to go, and then turned again to the children.

"And how long do adventures last?" he enquired.

"Oh, a long time," Billy replied vaguely. He liked the stranger immensely, but he was a grown-up and—well, it was safer not to enter into details.

Now, the gamekeeper on his dismissal, instead of crossing the meadow into the lane as he had originally intended, turned back into the wood. Had he not done so; had he and his master gone straight down to Riversham as they had previously planned, the children's adventure would have ended abruptly, and this story would never have been written.

For a car, containing a worried and unhappy father and mother was passing through the town towards Gleambridge, whither they gleaned from the children's letter they were bound.

Up in the meadow the children could only see the chimney pots and roofs of Riversham, so they did not know that the sleepy little town was in an unusual tumult. They did not see the crowd gradually collecting round the car; they knew nothing of the enquiries that were being made, or of the relief when, at last, the shop assistant who had glanced up idly as they passed joined the crowd. Yes, three children and a donkey had gone through the town, she said, some time ago—nearly an hour, in fact. Yes, they would soon be found for a car travels just a little quicker than a donkey, and the donkey seemed in no hurry.

Up in the meadow the children heard the car speeding out to the Gleambridge road, but they gave it no second thought, for the stranger was engrossing them.

"Would it," he was asking, "be an adventure to be prosecuted for trespassing?"

His voice was grave, but Nancy's quick eyes detected a little twitch at the corners of his mouth, and something at the back of his eyes that was not in accordance with his mouth.

"I don't think you would prosecute us," she replied, with a smile that was half-shy, half-frank.

"Why not? Don't you think I ought to?"

"No, I don't think you need. We told you we never hurt anything when we trespass. 'Sides, I b'lieve——" She hesitated.

"Yes, what do you believe?" he encouraged her.

"I b'lieve you kind of understand."

"Why do you think that?" he asked. In his interest he dropped all pretence of severity.

"Oh, I can't s'plain." Nancy regarded him frankly for a moment. "It's something in your eyes; they're whim—whimsical."

"That's a long word for a little girl," was his reply.

"She can't help it," Billy interrupted with a teasing sigh and grin.

"What was the long word we were to offer up to the God of Adventure, Nancy?" Mavis asked, suddenly returning to the conversation that had been interrupted long, long ago, and joining in the general laugh when the owner hoped they were going to offer up something more substantial than a word.

"Is libation what you offer?" Nancy asked anxiously. "We weren't quite sure. And can you do it in lemonade—that's all we've got?"

"And will it matter us having eaten our meal first?" Billy enquired. "We didn't think about it till just as you came along."

"Is there really a God of Adventure?" Mavis chimed in eagerly. "And if we give him a libation will he really and truly help us to have lots of nice things happen?"

"Not really-truly like you and me and Billy," Nancy replied. "Is it?" she asked, turning confidentially to the owner. "But really-truly—oh, yes! Don't you remember what Aunt Letty and 'nearly-uncle Jim' told us? Anything can happen if you have an inner vision, and if you think there is a God of Adventure, then there is, and he'll help you. And, oh, do you think," she added, turning again to the stranger who yet seemed no stranger, "do you think we may offer him lemonade as we haven't got wine, and shall we do it now, and—and would you like to help us?"

Now, a property owner ought to be too busy attending to his duties to play with children in the young hours of the day. He ought, moreover, firmly, if politely to point out to trespassers that he cannot have his meadow turned into a sort of heathen temple. And the presumption of it! They inviting him, the owner to join in heathen rites! Why, he should be in a frenzy of indignation!

But the owner was twenty-one and trespassers such as these three little people, who apparently recognized him as a comrade, interested him immensely. And, curiously enough, though twenty-one is a fearfully important age and has all sorts of delightful possibilities hovering round it, Dick Frampton had an instinctive feeling that it was a privilege to be allowed to assist in, what to the children, was a solemn affair.

So, feeling that unseen hands were pushing adventure towards him, he replied by picking up the lemonade bottle and taking charge of the rites.

Yes, in the circumstances, lemonade would do, but had they salt? Sacred salt must be sprinkled on the meat. A pity they had had their meal, gods preferred their offerings to be given first. Well, they had better forget that meal and, after the offerings, they would all eat together. Had they any meat on which the salt could be sprinkled?

"There's veal and ham pie," they replied anxiously. "Will it do?"

They gathered round with silent, eager interest while he cut off a very tiny portion of the pie. Was that enough, they asked, rather shocked to offer a god so little.

"Yes, he'll understand. Come now, and think hard about him and tell him inside yourselves what you want."

With almost a feeling of being in church they followed him to the hedge and watched while he placed the corner of pie on a little grassy mound and sprinkled it with salt. With slow, solemn movements of his hands he appeared to be blessing the pie, at the same time murmuring something in a language the children could not understand.

The libation of lemonade, too, was a small one, but a God of Adventure who could not understand and forgive a shortage would not be worth approaching. An intense silence held the children as the slow drops trickled on to the mound. Modestine, a few yards off, was quietly cropping the grass; a lazy bird-chatter came from the little wood, and across the meadow a yellowhammer was singing his bread-and-butter song. The sounds of everyday human life came up from Riversham, but faintly, so that they seemed to accentuate the silence.

Little half-thoughts that would not form themselves into words came to Nancy as they stood there. How funny that they should be standing here with this stranger. And then again, how natural it seemed—and why did he not seem like a stranger to them? How wonderful the sunlight was! How could one think when sunlight was bathing one through and through. It caught the salt and made it alive with beauty. Surely sun-kissed salt must be acceptable to a god? Adventures now must come to them.

Leaving their humble offering on the mound, they, the three children and Dick Frampton, each solemnly ate a fragment of pie.

"Ours must be smaller, of course, than the sacred offering," Dick said.

What little lemonade was left he also divided between them. Nancy instinctively turned her eyes to the hills as she drank; would they get there, and would adventure come out to meet them, and, above all, would they know it for adventure?

"And now," said Dick, "I must go."

There was reluctance in his voice, yet he knew this was to be no final farewell; these little people had come into his life to stay—he would see to that, and seeing his own reluctance reflected in their faces, he told them his name. Just for a second Billy hesitated before he would allow Nancy to tell of their home at Nestcombe and invite Mr. Frampton to come and see them some day. Yet, after all, if they told him, what possible effect could it have on their plans?

"I'm going over there this evening," Dick said, nodding towards the hills, "so I shan't be able to come for a day or two."

"Going to the hills?" Nancy began impulsively. "Why——" A warning glance from Billy restrained her, and Dick who simply imagined this adventure as some extra-special all-day picnic, a grand make-believe affair, had no suspicions that they would be journeying in the same direction.

With a wave of the hand he left them, and the children began to gather up their blankets and prepare to set forth again.

"I do hope we see him again soon," Nancy said, as, with a somewhat reluctant Modestine, they crossed the meadow.

That the God of Adventure, in accepting their offerings, had laid his spell on them and Dick Frampton she could not guess; that Dick was to play a very big part in their adventures, well, how could they possibly know this?

CHAPTER IV

MONTAGUE FRANCIS DE VERE

"I expect there's a lovely view just round that bend at the top," Nancy said, when they arrived at the road. "Should we take just a peep? It won't take five minutes."

Billy hesitated. When he had made up his mind to go to a certain place he preferred to make steadily for it and not wander off into side roads, but as Mavis added her entreaties to Nancy's he gave way reluctantly.

Nancy mounted Modestine and the little procession set off up the hill. To the left, they caught sight of the chimney-pots of a house, but that was all, until they reached the bend. And then such a view. A long stretch of the Gleam was visible, and the hills, rising out of a mist so faint that it seemed like a veil of light, were more alluring than ever. On their own home side of the river, far, far away beyond the mouth, were mountains peeping out from a dense blue curtain.

Mavis, the artist of the family, was enraptured by the blueness.

"It's like that picture we saw once—you 'member—some little girls with lots of autumn leaves heaped up, and a basket, and the blueness all behind them!" she cried excitedly.

"Yes," Nancy responded, "an' it was so blue I thought it couldn't be real. Now we know it's all right."

They both sighed with delight and satisfaction.

"I say, do look at that boy!" Billy interrupted. "See, over there in the garden!"

The view had entirely absorbed Nancy and Mavis, but they turned with ready interest to learn the cause of that in Billy's voice that promised something worth while.

Standing back from the road they saw the primmest house imaginable, with a garden to correspond. Not a weed was to be seen; not a plant or bush or tree grew there that had any inclination to riot or sprawl. There were neat little rose bushes, but no ramblers; there were stocks, and geraniums, and lobelias in prim little lozenge beds, but no pretty sprawling clarkia or love-in-a-mist or joyous Californian poppy. A neat little laurel hedge divided the flowers from the kitchen garden, where again everything was congruous—everything, that is, except the boy.

He was standing by a bed of beetroots, leaning on a hoe, with his profile towards them. They could not see his eyes, but his face, and indeed, his whole attitude, expressed solemn dejection. Yet that was not the reason why he seemed so utterly out of place in the picture.

"Isn't he dirty!" whispered Mavis, in disgust, for she had a horror of dirt, as Billy knew to his cost. "An' untidy!"

His hands, if he was supposed to be hoeing, might, of course, have been allowed a thin coating of earth, but there was earth on his face, earth on his knees, earth on his clothes. He was about Billy's age, and was wearing a grey flannel suit, grey felt hat, and grey stockings, all very much like Billy's, but, although Billy had no special reputation for either cleanliness or tidiness, he was not to be compared with the little object in the garden whose stockings were slopping over his boots, and whose hat was thrust defiantly at the back of his head.

The children stared in puzzled wonderment. There was something about him that suggested he was not just the gardener's boy, yet what possible connection could such a ragamuffin have with so prim a place?

At this moment the boy dived into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief that was the colour of his hands.

"Isn't he awful?" Mavis whispered, in horror.

"Yes, but I don't believe he's very happy," Nancy replied. "He looks so sad."

Billy giggled.

"'Spect he doesn't like hoeing!" he said. "I don't!"

Nancy shook her head.

"No, it's not that kind of sadness. I know how you look when you have to do weeding; his is more than that—it's all of him that's unhappy."

Just then the boy looked up and met Billy's eye. Neither boy moved or spoke for a moment, then suddenly the young ragamuffin jerked his hat over his eyes, thrust forward his chin, assumed a "Bill Sikes" expression, and lurched defiantly towards the palings.

"What cher want?" he growled, in a voice that sounded volcanic.

"Nothing!" Billy replied, with a grin. "I say, are you fed-up with hoeing?"

The boy hesitated, a little surprised at Billy's friendly tone.

"You'd be," he rumbled, "if you hoed as much as I do. It's weed, weed, weed, and hoe, hoe, hoe, morning, noon, and night. A boy has no play here," he added bitterly. "She says a boy like me needs discipline—an' this is what she gives me!" He paused and looked thoughtful. "'Tisn't his fault," he added, as though talking to himself, "he's sorry for me, but he says it's silly to mind doin' it. Only——" and here his voice grew particularly volcanic, "I wish he wouldn't always be talkin' about courage."

"Courage?" Billy enquired, wondering what it had to do with hoeing.

"Yes. He said there was a boy in a book who heard a man say, ''Tisn't life that matters, but the courage you bring to it.' I dunno what he wants to keep talkin' about it for, and I dunno what it's got to do with weeding." He paused. "Courage!" he added darkly, "guess I know what courage is, as I'd show any boy! I don't need to weed to know that!"

Now, hitherto, he had not looked beyond Billy, but, at that moment, his eye fell on Mavis, who was standing with her hand on Modestine's bridle. He stood as though spellbound, with wonder in his big, solemn eyes.

"Don't stare!" Mavis said, in a reproving voice, "it's rude!"

"I'm only just lookin' at you!" he replied, in a voice that was surprisingly humble. "You're very pretty," he added. Silence again. "Would you like an apple? There's an early tree over there," he blurted out.

Mavis looked at his grubby hands.

"No, thank you," she replied promptly. Then fearing that perhaps she had hurt him, "What is your name?" she asked in a kind, fat little voice.

"Montague Francis de Vere," he replied, with a defiant eye on Billy. "Once," he added, reminiscently, "there was a boy who said I'd better add Plantagenet while I was about it. Montague Francis Plantagenet de Vere he called me, just that once, but not again!" His eye was still fixed firmly on Billy, who, instead of quailing as apparently he was intended to, merely grinned pleasantly. The ragamuffin leaned over the palings. "And there was another boy," he continued, "who called me Monty—and he was sorry afterwards!"

"Why?" asked Mavis innocently.

"'Cos I made him sorry!" the boy growled.

"Oh, but if I knew you I should call you Monty," Mavis replied.

"Well, you can—sometimes!" Montague growled. "An' so, perhaps, can she," with a jerk of his head towards Nancy. "But anybody else," here he again fixed Billy with a defiant eye, "anybody else has to call me Montague or Mont, else they'll be sorry."

Billy chuckled.

"Well, Mont's all right," he said. "I'll call you that."

"What does your mother call you?" asked Nancy.

"I've not got a mother," he replied simply, "nor a father."

"Oh, poor, poor Monty!" the two girls whispered kindly, and Billy sidled up to the boy in a friendly, protective way.

"Ah, now I see why you don't belong to the picture," Nancy added. "It's a horrid, prim picture and it's hurting you, isn't it?"

Montague looked up at her in surprise.

"How d'you know?" he asked. The way in which he said it told so much that their hearts ached for him.

"'Cos I kind of feel it about you—we said so before you turned and saw us. Who do you live with, and how long—how long have you had to live here?" She could not bring herself to ask how long he had been without a father or mother.

"Three months," he replied, in a voice that suggested that the three months had been as three centuries to him. "He's sorry for me to be here; he said he'd hoped to have had a home for Jocelyne and me with somebody who would have been a mother-person to us, but he said they couldn't agree about something or other, an' so there was no mother-person and no home—not yet."

"But who is 'he'?" asked Billy.

"My guardian," Montague replied.

"Is he nice?" asked Mavis.

"Yes, I like him—we're friends. He's going to let me live with him in London in the winter and p'raps Jocelyne, but she doesn't mind being here."

"Who's Jocelyne?" asked Nancy.

"She's my sister." he replied, in a resigned voice. "Sisters are not very nice people," he added bitterly. "They get grown-up and don't mind being prim, and they hate you being a bit dirty, an' it's wash, wash, wash morning, noon an' night."

"I don't like dirty people either," Mavis said. "Billy has to wash properly."

Billy giggled, and Montague gazed solemnly first at him and then at Mavis.

"Don't you like me?" he growled wistfully.

"I don't know you," Mavis replied. "P'raps I might like you if you were clean," she added kindly.

"Oh, but we do like him, Mavis! We're sorry for him, aren't we?" Nancy said impulsively.

"Yes, of course we're sorry and p'raps you'd be clean if you had a 'mother," Mavis replied gently. "Wouldn't you, Monty?" she added with such a winning smile in her blue eyes that Montague suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to wash and wash until he was as white as snow. Yet, though he would have given much to do so, he could not truthfully own to absolute cleanliness even under his mother's influence. He grew solemn and thoughtful once more.

"Mothers, when they're dead, try to help boys," he began. "There's a boy I know," he went on in his queer, rumbling way, "a boy what sometimes uses bad words an' his mother is an angel an' she comes to him sometimes at night looking all shiny and sorry, an' she says she'll help him not to use 'em."

"And does he manage not to now?" Nancy enquired sympathetically.

"Well, he doesn't use the very bad ones. Mothers," he added abruptly, "are different from aunts. They punish you if you use 'em." His voice grew vindictive. "When I'm grown-up I shall have a son ten years old, and he shall go without cake and jam for a month if he uses them, an' if he slides down banisters or along slippery floors, then he'll be sorry!"

"Oh, but aunts are nice," Mavis interrupted him. "We all love our Aunt Letty; she plays with us and tells us stories—an' she's pretty."

"Well," replied Montague, "great-aunts are different then. They don't ever play with you, neither are they pretty. An' if you have boots that sound nice then they try to make you sorry about them. But," and here his brown eyes suddenly sparkled impishly, "if you've got to wear slippers downstairs you can put your boots on in your bedroom and stride up and down s'much as you like and nobody'll hear you."

"I don't think that sounds very exciting," Mavis said. "I don't like clumsy boots."

Montague looked crestfallen as he gazed first at his own thick-soled boots and then at the trim little shoes Mavis was wearing.

"And is it your great-aunt you live with?" asked Nancy. "Is this her house and is that why it's so prim and neat?"

Montague nodded.

"Yes, it's hers an' she says there won't be much of it left if I'm here much longer. I can't help it if things get in the way. But my guardian says I've got to try and stand it a bit longer; he says he wants to study up the 'responsibilities of parenthood,' or somethin' like that. He says it's all very well to learn gradually to be a parent, but a boy of ten and a girl of fifteen, and him a bachelor of thirty he says isn't an easy situation. He says there should be lectures to meet the case. He's more afraid of Jocelyne than me 'cos women, he says, are unaccountable. He talks to me a lot—he likes talking. Some of it's queer kind of talk, but anyway he likes boys an' that's more'n great-aunts do. An' he plays with me."

"Our Uncle Val plays with us when he's in England, and there was another, a nearly-uncle, who used to play with us," said Mavis.

"Uncle Val's in Egypt now," Billy, who was never tired of talking of his uncle's wanderings, informed Montague. "He's been to Russia, too—he's an adventurer, and so are we!" he added proudly.

"Adventurers?" Montague repeated with interest.

"Yes, we're going to travel with a donkey. We're going to the hills over there." Billy nodded in the direction of the hills.

Montague's interest increased.

"When do you start?" he asked.

"We've started. We've come miles already, an' we're going on for days—p'raps a week."

Montague gazed at the three adventurers with undisguised admiration and respect.

"An' are you going on now?" he asked wistfully.

"Yes, an' we'd better hurry. We kind of forgot while we were talking to you. We've miles to go!" Billy was in a tremendous hurry now to be moving.

"An' me here hoeing and weedin' all the summer holidays! Me stuck in this garden with nobody to play with!" Montague's voice was so sad and his words called up so gloomy a picture that instinctively the same thought swept through each of the three children. Billy voiced it.

"I say, come with us!"

"Do come!" added Nancy.

"Yes, we'd like you to come, Monty," Mavis added sweetly, "only you will wash yourself first, won't you?"

Montague's usually solemn eyes literally danced with joy.

"I'll be ready in less'n a minute!" he cried, and dropping the hoe, he ran swiftly down the garden. A moment later, they saw him on the other side of the laurel hedge running along a path in the flower garden.

"He's going to that gold-fish pond in the middle of the lawn there! Oh, do look!" Billy chuckled in enjoyment. "If the great-aunt saw him now wouldn't her hair fly!"

Montague was kneeling on the stone edge of the pond dipping his earthy hands into the clear water. Next he pulled out the grimy handkerchief, swished it about amongst the goldfish, and smeared it over his face. Satisfied with the result, he thrust the handkerchief back into his pocket and came bounding towards them.

"Now I'm ready!" he cried joyfully. "Let's start!"

Mavis eyed him critically.

"Oh, you awful, awful boy," she sighed. "You're worse than before. You can't come like that."