"Only as far as here," I replied, looking at him merrily.

"Eh? What? Why, hallo!" he cried. "I didn't know. They said you were under punishment for something, but I didn't know what. Why, yes: both of you. Look at your eyes. You've been fighting!"

I nodded, and Mercer laughed.

"We've come to tell you all about it."

Lomax drove his spade down into the ground and left it standing in the bed.

"Here, come along," he cried excitedly, and he led the way into the lodge, placed chairs for us, and re-lit his pipe, before standing smoking with his back to the fire. "Now then," he cried, "let's have it."

We described our encounter, and the old soldier laughed and chuckled with satisfaction.

"Yes, that's it," he cried, as we came to an end, first one and then the other carrying on the thread of the narration to the conclusion.

"That's science; that is just the same as with a well-drilled regiment, which can beat a mob of fifty times its size. Well, I'm glad you won, and were such good pupils. Shows you remembered all I taught you. Now take my advice, both of you. Don't you fight again till you are regularly obliged."

"Not going to," I said.

"That's right, boy. You'll be like a man now who has got a blunderbuss in his house. Thieves all about know that he has got one, and so they leave him alone. Well when are you going to have another riding lesson?"

"Let's begin again at once," I said; and he promised to send or go down to the General's, to ask the groom to bring up the horse in the morning.

"I'll go myself if I can," said Lomax, "and ride him up pretty quickly.

He'll have had such a rest that he'll be quite skittish."

All this being settled, and it being yet early, we had time for a walk, and the discovery of sundry objects, which Mercer looked upon as treasures, and carefully placed in boxes and pieces of paper.

The first was an unhappy-looking stag beetle which seemed to have been in the wars, for one of its horns was gone, while not a dozen yards farther on we came upon a dissipated c.o.c.kchafer, with a dent in his h.o.r.n.y case, and upon both of these Mercer pounced with delight, transferring them to a flat tin paste-blacking box, inside which we could hear them scratching to get out.

The next thing to attract his attention was a fat worm, which, after a crawl in the cool, dewy night, had lost his way back to his hole, and was now crawling slowly by the roadside, with more sand sticking to him than could have been comfortable.

"Oh, what a big one!" cried Mercer. "I say, I must have him."

"For a bait for an eel or carp?" I said.

"No. To preserve."

"Let the poor thing be," I cried, and, thrusting a piece of stick under the worm, I sent it flying amongst the wet gra.s.s.

"Ugh! you cruel wretch!" cried Mercer.

"Come, that's nice," I said. "Better than letting you put it in a box, and carrying it in your hot pocket to kill."

"I shouldn't kill it, I should keep it in a pot of earth."

"Which would dry up, and the poor thing would crawl out and be trodden upon. Come along."

But he would not come along, for Tom Mercer was a true naturalist at heart, and found interest in hundreds of things I should have pa.s.sed over. For instance, that morning, as we strolled a little way along the lane, we stopped to peer over the gate into a newly ploughed field at some round-looking birds which rose directly with a loud whirr, and then went skimming along, to glide over the hedge at the bottom and disappear.

"Partridges," cried Mercer. "Daresay they've got a nest somewhere not far from here. Oh, I do wish we had bought Magglin's gun. It is such a handy one. You see we could keep it up in the loft, and take it to pieces and bring it out without any one knowing, and shoot our own birds to stuff."

"Mustn't shoot partridges. They're game," I said.

"Oh, I don't know," he replied. "We shouldn't want them to eat, only to stuff, and--Hallo, look there! I haven't found one of those for ever so long."

He climbed over the gate, and picked up something cream-coloured from the hollow between two furrows.

"What is it?" I said, as he came back.

"Worm-eater," and he opened his hand.

"Why, it's a slug," I said. "Throw the nasty slimy thing away."

"'Tisn't slimy," he said, as I looked on with disgust at him poking the long-shaped creamy creature with one finger, as it lay in the palm of his left hand. "You feel it. Quite cool and dry."

"I'm not going to touch the nasty thing," I cried. "And what do you mean by a worm-eater?"

"Mean he's one. See how long and thin he is. That's so that he can creep down the worm-holes and catch the worms and eat 'em."

"Nonsense! Slugs live on lettuces and cabbages, and other green things."

"These don't," said Mercer quietly; "they live on worms."

"How do you know?"

"Because my father told me, and I've kept 'em in boxes and fed 'em with worms."

"Well, throw it away, and come along; we ought to be getting back now."

"Yes, so as to have time to go up to the museum first," he replied, but he did not throw away his last find. That was tucked into a pill-box, with the promise that I should see it eat a live worm that night.

We turned back and took the side lane which would lead us round by the keeper's cottage.

"Let's see what Bob has got stuck up on the barn side," said Mercer. "I daresay there'll be something fresh. He always says he'll save me all the good things he shoots, but he forgets and nails them on. Come on through the wood."

"But we shall get our feet so wet," I said, as Mercer jumped the ditch.

"That we won't. It will be drier here."

I followed him, and, knowing his way well, Mercer took me by a short cut among the trees, which brought us just to the back of the keeper's cottage, where dozens of the supposed enemies of the game were gibbeted.

Jays, hawks, owls, little falcons, shrikes, weasels, stoats, and polecats.

"There," said Mercer, pointing, "look at that beautiful fresh jay. He might have let me--"

Mercer stopped short, for we heard Polly Hopley's voice speaking loudly, evidently at the front of the cottage.

"I don't want it, and I won't have it. Give it to some one else."