“I say,” said John Parker, “let us turn in here, we shall find shade enough, and I had rather sit on the grass and moss than on this bank.  Come along, we have only to climb the hedge.”

“But that would be trespassing,” said one conscientious boy, who went by the name of Simon Pure, because he never would join in any sport he thought wrong, and used to recall the master’s prohibitions rather oftener to his forgetful companions than they liked.

“Trespassing! a fig for trespassing,” said John Parker, clearing away all impediments, and bestriding the narrow ditch, planted a foot firmly on the opposite bank.

“You may get something not so sweet as a fig for trespassing, John, though,” said his brother Fred, who came up at this moment.

“Man-traps and spring-guns are fictions my lad,” said Philip Harcourt, a boy of much the same turn as John, not easily persuaded any way; “Now for it, over Parker; be quick, man,” and over he jumped.

Then followed Harcourt, White, and another little boy, whose name was Arthur, leaving Fred and Simon Pure in the middle of the road.  The wood was, undoubtedly, a very delightful place, and more than one fine pheasant rustled amongst the underwood, and the squirrels leaped from bough to bough, whilst the music of the birds was charming.  Fred, himself, was tempted as he peeped over the gap, and stood irresolute.  The plantation was far enough from the residence of the owner, nor was it likely that they could do much mischief beyond frightening the game, and as it was not sitting time, Fred himself argued it could do no harm, but little Riches, the boy called Pure, who was a great admirer of Fred, especially since the affair of the Dahlias, begged him not to go; “Mr. Barton, you know, has such a great dislike to our trespassing,” said Riches, “and if we stay here resolutely they will be sure to come back.”

“Don’t preach to me,” was the rather unexpected reply, for Fred was not perfect yet, though he had gained a victory or two over his temper of late.

“I didn’t mean to preach, but I do wish the boys would come home, it is growing late; and with our heavy baskets we shall only just get in in time.”

“Halloo!” shouted Fred, getting on the bank.  “Come back, won’t you, or we shall be too late; come, John, you are the eldest, come along.”  But his call was drowned in the sound of their voices, which were echoing through the weeds, much to the annoyance, no doubt, of the stately pheasants who were not accustomed to human sounds like these.  They were not at any great distance, and Fred could just distinguish parts of their conversation.

John and Harcourt were urging White, a delicate boy, and no climber, to mount a high tree in the wood, to enjoy they said the glorious sea-view; but in reality to make themselves merry at his expense, being certain that if he managed to scramble up he would have some difficulty in getting down, and would get a terrible fright at least.  White stood at the bottom of the tree, looking at his companions as they rode on one of the higher branches of a fine spruce fir.