it. Then they took it into their study, and began plucking it themselves; but what to do with the feathers, where to hide them?

“Good gracious, Tom, what a lot of feathers a duck has!” groaned East, holding a bagful in his hand, and looking disconsolately at the carcase, not yet half plucked.

Tom and East plucking the Duck

“And I do think he’s getting high too, already,” said Tom, smelling at him cautiously, “so we must finish him up soon.”

“Yes, all very well, but how are we to cook him? I’m sure I ain’t going to try it on in the hall or passages; we can’t afford to be roasting ducks about, our character’s too bad.”

“I wish we were rid of the brute,” said Tom, throwing him on the table in disgust. And after a day or two more it became clear that got rid of he must be; so they packed him and sealed him up in brown paper, and put him in the cupboard of an unoccupied study, where he was found in the holidays by the matron, a grewsome body.

They had never been duck-hunting there since, but others had, and the bold yeoman was very sore on the subject, and bent on making an example of the first boys he could catch. So he and his shepherds crouched behind the hurdles, and watched the party, who were approaching all unconscious.

Why should that old guinea-fowl be lying out in the hedge just at this particular moment of all the year? Who can say? Guinea-fowls always are—so are all other things, animals, and persons, requisite for getting one into scrapes, always ready when any mischief can come of them. At any rate, just under East’s nose popped out the old guinea-hen, scuttling along and shrieking, “Come back, come back,” at the top of her voice. Either of the other three might perhaps have withstood the temptation, but East first lets drive the stone he has in his hand at her, and then rushes to turn her into the hedge again. He succeeds, and then they are all at it for dear life, up and down the hedge in full cry, the “Come back, come back,” getting shriller and fainter every minute.

Meantime, the farmer and his men steal over the hurdles and creep down the hedge towards the scene of action. They are almost within a stone’s throw of Martin, who is pressing the unlucky chase hard, when Tom catches sight of them, and sings out, “Louts, ’ware louts, your side! Madman, look ahead!” and then catching hold of Arthur, hurries him away across the field towards Rugby as hard as they can tear. Had he been by himself, he would have stayed to see it out with the others, but now his heart sinks and all his pluck goes. The idea of being led up to the Doctor with Arthur for bagging fowls quite unmans and takes half the run out of him.

Running for a Convoy

However, no boys are more able to take care of themselves than East and Martin; they dodge the pursuers, slip through a gap, and come pelting after Tom and Arthur, whom they catch up in no time; the farmer and his men are making good running about a field behind. Tom wishes to himself that they had made off in any other direction, but now they are all in for it together, and must see it out.

“You won’t leave the young ’un, will you?” says he, as they haul poor little Arthur, already losing wind from the fright, through the next hedge. “Not we,” is the answer from both. The next hedge is a stiff one; the pursuers gain horribly on them, and they only just pull Arthur through, with two great rents in his trousers, as the foremost shepherd comes up on the other side. As they start into the next field, they are aware of two figures walking down the footpath in the middle of it, and recognizes Holmes and Diggs taking a constitutional. Those good-natured fellows immediately shout, “On.” “Let’s go to them and surrender,” pants Tom.—Agreed.—And in another minute the four boys, to the great astonishment of those worthies, rush breathless up to Holmes and Diggs, who pull up to see what is the matter; and then