The next was in like condition, and Mrs. Winstanley's and Edward's plates told the same story.

"There's something queer about this!" said the squire, cutting into his third pear. Then, suddenly catching sight of the air of elaborate nonchalance which the boys were rather overdoing, "You young rascals!"

he roared. "I verily believe this is your handiwork!"

I will draw a veil over the explanations which followed. To d.i.c.k and George they proved extremely unpleasant, as Mr. Winstanley was really angry. He had little patience with practical jokes, and especially disliked to give any cause of offence to his neighbours, so he insisted upon marching both the boys off then and there to make their apologies to Captain Vernon.

"And if he likes to horse-whip you, he may do so," he declared. "And I'll stand by and watch it done, and say you deserve it for a couple of mischievous young jackanapes!"

To the great surprise of all concerned, however, the old captain "turned up trumps". Bursting into a roar of laughter, he declared he had had the best of the joke, shook the boys warmly by the hand, and proclaimed an amnesty. He even did more. Next day he sent us a beautiful basketful of his best wall-apricots as a peace-offering, and permission to pick blackberries in his fields if we chose.

"It's ever so decent of the old chap," said George. "We certainly did rag him rather hard. But I've promised to catch the moles in his garden--I'm a capital hand at setting mole-traps--and he says if I like to come and scare the birds from his autumn peas, he'll lend me an air-gun, and I can blaze away all day if I want."

It was a very satisfactory conclusion to the feud, and I think the boys were glad it had ended thus; for by the next holidays the poor old captain's cough no longer resounded through the village, his garden knew him no more, and other and younger faces looked out from his red-curtained windows.

CHAPTER VII

t.i.t FOR TAT

"All in the nick To play some trick And frolic it with Ho! ho! ho!"

Though the natural-history portion of the Marshlands Museum grew so rapidly that it threatened to overflow the cabinet, there were very few antiquities in the collection, a Roman lamp, an Egyptian scarab, a few old coins, and a Georgian snuff-box making up the whole of the scanty store.

"I wish we could get a few really ancient things," said Cathy one day, as she dusted and tidied the shelves. "Arrow-heads, I mean, and spindle-whorls, and bronze brooches, and all those delightful finds you hear of people digging up out of barrows. I'm sure there ought to be some on these moors if we only knew where to look for them."

"Go and dig, then," suggested d.i.c.k. "You don't know what you might come across."

"Why shouldn't I?" said Cathy. "There's a little round green mound just in the corner of the field near the stone bridge that, I always think, looks as if it ought to have something inside it. I shall certainly try some day, when I have time."

Cathy generally carried out her intentions, so one afternoon about a week later she came from the tool-house carrying two small garden spades in her hand.

"Come along, Phil," she said. "We'll go and dig on the moors. It's a good opportunity while the boys are out fishing. They always make such fun of us. It will be quite time to tell them about it if we find anything."

I was more than willing, so we started briskly up the steep stony road towards the moors. It was a glorious autumn afternoon, with larks singing overhead, and the heather a glow of soft purple below. Flocks of plovers scared at our approach flew off with warning cries, and a sea-gull or two, which had been feeding with them, flapped majestically away towards the silvery line of the sea in the far distance. We followed the course of the noisy brook for about a mile, till we reached the little rough stone bridge which spanned the rapid, rushing water.

"Why do they make the bridge so much wider than the stream?" I asked, as I looked down at the narrow channel under the arch.

"The water is low now," answered Cathy. "But you should see it when there has been a storm upon the hills. It comes raging down in a great foaming torrent, and it's so wide that sometimes you can scarcely get on to the bridge. It looks grand then. I often think the country is even more beautiful in winter than in summer, yet how few people who live in towns ever dream of taking a Christmas holiday to see what the moors are like in December!"

"They would find it dull, I expect," I suggested, for I could not imagine Aunt Agatha or any of her friends leaving the diversions of London to seek nature's solitudes in mid-winter.

"They don't know how to enjoy themselves," said Cathy, who had a fine scorn for town-dwellers. "I would rather have a ramble over the fells in the snow, or a scamper on Lady after the hounds, than all the parties and pantomimes you could offer me."

The mound proved to be a small green hillock in the corner of a very stony field close to the bridge.

"It's just the kind of place the prehistoric people used to bury their chiefs under," declared Cathy. "Don't you remember the pictures I showed you in Mother's book? There ought to be a skeleton in the middle, and all the drinking-vessels and ornaments and things which they put in the grave with him. If we pull a few of these stones away I think we shall be able to dig; the soil seems fairly light."

"It's very soft here," I said, putting in my spade as I spoke and turning up the turf without much difficulty.

"So it is. Perhaps a rabbit has burrowed there and loosened the earth.

We'll go on here, as it seems an easy place."

We had not dug more than a foot deep when Cathy's spade struck upon something hard.

"Stop, Philippa! Be careful!" she cried. "If there's really anything here we mustn't spoil it on any account."

She went down on her knees, and, putting her hand into the hole we had dug, began to feel about cautiously.

"There is! There actually is!" she exclaimed, and with eyes shining with delight she drew forth a small round vessel fashioned somewhat in the shape of an urn. It appeared to be made of baked clay, and was broken and crumbling round the top and stained with darkish marks below.

"It must be two thousand years old or more," said Cathy, in a voice of rapture. "And there's something inside it too!"

She turned it carefully upside down, and out fell a few little bones and five worn and rusty-looking coins.

"Now, this _is_ a discovery," she continued. "No doubt it was a Celtic chief who was buried here. They would burn his body first, and put his bones in the urn along with a few Roman coins. You can't see the marks on them, can you? Never mind, we'll rub them up when we go home. What an addition to the collection! _Sha'n't_ we crow over the boys, just!"

We filled up the hole in the mound again, and went home elated with pride, feeling that the British Museum itself might justly envy us our possession. The boys were hanging about the gate as though they were waiting for our return, though they certainly could not have known where we had been that afternoon.

"Hullo! What have you got there?" they cried, as Cathy produced her treasure.

"Don't ever dare to chaff me again about antiquities," she announced.

"What do you say to this?"

It might have been fancy, but I certainly thought I saw a wink pa.s.s between d.i.c.k and Edward. Perhaps, however, I was mistaken, since they all seemed duly impressed.

"Looks a real mouldy, crumbly, museum old kind of a performance," said Edward.

"Must be genuine if you dug it up yourself," remarked d.i.c.k.

"You'll have to write about it to the newspaper," put in George. "What sport for you to see your name in print!"

"Go and ask Evans for a box of metal-polish," said Cathy. "I must certainly find out what the coins are, they'll fix the date of the mound."

d.i.c.k went with a readiness which might have aroused our suspicions, and hung over her shoulder while she rubbed vigorously away at the worn-looking specimens.

"It's certainly coming off!" she cried with enthusiasm. "Oh, look!

There is a mark like a head, and some writing, and--it looks like--why--why----!"

She held the coin up critically, and her face fell; as well it might, for when the dirt was cleaned away, there appeared the unmistakable profile of Queen Victoria, while on the other side was the familiar figure of Britannia and the remains of the words "Half Penny"!

"d.i.c.k!" cried Cathy with sudden enlightenment.

But the boys were doubled up in such convulsions of jubilant mirth that it was a few moments before they could gasp out any remarks.

"Done you, old girl, for once!" spluttered George.