Whereupon the tugs, glad to be relieved, came on board, the two boats cast loose, and the oars were put out.

"Botheration," said Trimble; "there's a boat ahead of us."

"Only some fisherman--he won't hurt," said Langrish.

But as we approached the spot we perceived, not one boat only, but two, drawn up under the trees, and both empty. What was worse, they were Low Heath boats, and bore the name of Jorrocks on their sterns.

The committee looked glum as our party stepped ash.o.r.e and proceeded to make fast our boats to the trees.

"Why can't Jorrocks send his excursionists somewhere else?" growled Langrish; "I shouldn't wonder if they've bagged the Bottom."

The Camp Hill Bottom was a curious dell among the trees, almost in the shape of a basin, with heather and gorse all round the top, and beautiful velvety gra.s.s in the hollow. For a picnic it was an ideal place: close to the water, sheltered from the wind, with plenty of room to sit round, and an expanse of delightful heath and wood behind and on either side.

It was on this heath, the legend went, that one of the most furious battles in the Wars of the Roses was fought, and the Camp Hill marked the place where Earl Warwick's standard waved during the engagement.

The Bottom was popularly supposed to have been hollowed out by some monks, as a burial place for the slain; but their benevolent intention had been thwarted by the swoop of a band of marauders, who preferred robbing the slain to burying them, and left most of the monks dead in their own grave.

There is little sign now of this tragic story about the quiet gra.s.s- grown hollow, with its fringe of overhanging bushes and carpet of mossy velvet.

Just at present, however, as we made our way to the spot, we had something more important on our minds than Earl Warwick and the unlucky monks. What if the Bottom was already bagged by a crowd of common holidaymakers, and all our carefully planned picnic was to be spoiled by their unwelcome intrusion?

It was too true. As we advanced we could hear sounds of revelry and laughter, interspersed with singing and cheers. Who could it be? The voices sounded suspiciously youthful. Suppose--just suppose that the--

Yes! It was too true! As we reached the edge and looked down on the coveted dell the first sight which greeted our eyes was a party of Low Heathens, sporting the day boys' colours spread out luxuriously on one of the sloping banks, solacing themselves with provender and songs and leap-frog!

I never saw twenty Philosophers look more blank than we did when slowly we realised the horror of the situation. We were done! There could be no doubt that the enemy had got wind of our purpose and had deliberately forestalled us; and was now only waiting to enjoy our discomfiture, and make merry over our disappointment.

As to the possibility of their being as sick at the sight of us as we were at the sight of them, it never even occurred to one of us.

Our first impulse was to eject them by force. Our next was to expostulate. Our third was to ignore them.

"Come on, you chaps," said Langrish, leading the way to the bank facing that in the occupation of the enemy, "here's our place. Squat down and make yourselves comfortable."

The Philosophers followed the cue, and, apparently unaware of the presence of any strangers, took possession of their slope, and tried to be as jolly as possible.

"I wonder where the day-boy cads go for their tucks," said Trimble in an audible voice, evidently intended for the opposition. "Some one was saying they were trying to get up a kids' club; ha, ha! I'd like to see it."

"Such a joke, Quin," said a voice over the way, evidently pitched to carry across to us. "You know those kids in Sharpe's? they've started a society. What do you think their motto is? Oh my, it's a screamer!"

"What is it?" asked the voice of Quin.

"Keep it dark. I wouldn't like it to get out I told you. It's _Mens sani in corpore sanorum_, or something like that. You should have seen Redwood yell over it."

"Now, you fellows, let's have our grub," said Langrish encouragingly.

"Chaps must eat, you know. _Corpore sanum_ is our motto, you know. Ha, ha! What do you think I heard one of the day louts call it? _Corpore sanorum_!"

"Ha! ha! ha!" shrieked we.

"Ho! ho! ho!" shrieked the Urbans.

In the midst of which hilarities we produced our provender (greatly to the relief of our pockets), and fell to. The operation evidently did not pa.s.s unheeded by the other side.

"I say, Flitwick," cried some one, "do you know what Philosophers eat?"

"No; what?"

"I never knew till just now. Inky bread and cold bacon-fat sandwiches, or else sherbet, if their tongues are long enough to reach to the bottom of the bottles."

"Have some of this fizzing pork pie, Jones?" asked c.o.xhead ostentatiously.

"Thanks. You have some of my sardines," replied I.

"Rummy name for a chap, Sarah, isn't it?" said the voice of the captain's f.a.g opposite. "There's a new chap in Sharpe's house this term, one of the biggest mules you ever saw--his name's Sarah."

"What," replied his friend--"is he an ugly little cad with a turn-up nose, and yellow kid gloves, that gets lines every day from the doctor, and can't kick a football as high as his own head? Rather! I know him."

It was impossible to go on much longer at this rate. The atmosphere was getting warm all round, and the storm evidently might break at any moment.

Fortunately for them, the Urbans, of their own accord, averted the peril.

"If you've done lunch," said Quin, "we'd better get to business. Our fellows go in for something besides tuck, don't they, Flitwick?"

"Rather," said Flitwick; "we haven't got a Latin motto that won't pa.r.s.e, but we meet to improve our minds, not stuff our bodies. I vote Mr Quin takes the chair."

"All serene," said Quin, perching himself on a hamper. "I now call upon Mr Brown iii. to read us his paper on 'Remains.'"

This was the first mention of my old comrade. During the interchange of courtesies during lunch he had kept steadily silent, anxious, no doubt, to spare my feelings. But now his chance was come. It was reserved to him to show off the Urbans on their intellectual side.

But before he could come to the front and clear his throat for action, Langrish had loudly called the Philosophers to order.

"Now, you fellows," said he, "we have our programme to get through, and we are not going to give it up, even if our place of meeting was swarming with day idiots. Mr President, you had better lead off."

Thus called upon, I loudly summoned Mr Philosopher Trimble to open the debate on the subject of "Beauty," venturing to add,--

"Some fellows, I've been told, discuss subjects they know nothing about, such as 'Remains,' and that sort of thing; but the Conversation Club makes a point of sticking to what they are familiar with, and that is why we speak to-day of Beauty."

It would not be easy to give a verbatim report of the proceedings which followed, for each party was evidently more attentive to what fell from the other side than to what fell from its own. And each speaker was evidently less concerned to impress his friends than his enemies.

But any one who had chanced to stand on the ridge above, half-way between the two parties, would have heard a medley somewhat of the following kind,--

"Gentlemen, in addressing you on the subject of remains--"

"--I need hardly explain what we mean when we speak of beauty--"

"--Remains are things dug up out of the earth where they--"

"--make a great mistake in calling things people eat, beautiful. In fact--"

"very few of them are to be found unless you know where they are, but--"