“I hope Philip’ll know how to work the machine,” said I, “because I’m sure I shouldn’t.”

At last it was finished, and James took it out and set it.  He disguised it (rather thinly) with half-a-dozen oak leaves and baited it with a lot of caterpillars, and retired behind a tree with the end of a long piece of string in his hand.

“When Philip walks up to the trap,” he explained, “he starts eating the caterpillars.  I pull the string, and he is caught in the calico.  It’s called a bow-net.”

He waited patiently for an hour-and-a-half, except for a short break while he rounded up the caterpillars, who, not knowing the rules, had walked away.  Then we took the luncheon interval; scores, James (in play) 0; Philip 0.

“I don’t see,” said Ansell soon after the resumption, “why poor old James should do all the work.  Let’s all help.”

We began by posting an appeal in prominent spots about the grounds:—­

    PHILIP—­If this should meet the eye of.  Return to your
    sorrowing family, when all will be forgotten and forgiven
    and no questions asked.

Next we festooned the estate with helpful notices, such as “This way to the Trap —­>” and “Caterpillar Buffet first turn to Left.”  One of the peacocks was observed to be reading this last with great interest, so we added a few more notices for the special benefit of unauthorised food-hogs:  “Free List Suspended until Further Notice,” and “Eat Less Worm.”

At tea-time Philip was still holding coldly aloof.  But while we were indoors Bennett, the gardener, caught him by some simple artifice beneath James’s notice.  I found him putting the truant back in his cage.

“Don’t do that, Bennett,” I said.  “Put him in Mr. James’s trap.  He’s had a lot of trouble making that trap, and it’s a pity to waste it.”

Bennett grinned a toothless grin at me and did some dialect, which I understood to mean that I might do as I liked, but that he (Bennett) was not going to catch no more birds for us.

Hardly had I put Philip in the trap when James emerged.

“Good Lord!” he shouted, “it’s done it!  He’s in!”

He dashed on to the lawn, wild with joy.  Probably it was the first time any of his devices had succeeded.

“Aha, my beauty,” he cried, slipping his hand under the calico.  “We’ve got you safe, have we?”

We had not.  There was a flash of red and grey, and the outraged Philip, minus a tail feather, sought the sanctuary of the woods.

He is still absent without leave at the time of writing.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Manager of Labour Exchange (to man whom he has sent to a job for “an intelligent labourer to assist the demonstrator of tanks; one who can hold his tongue about the work").  “WELL, MIKE, HOW’S EVERYTHING GOING?”

Mike (confidentially).  “FAITH, BUT THEY’RE A DEAD FAILURE, SORR.  WHY, THREE WEEKS I’VE BEEN ON THIM TANKS AND NIVER WAN HAS RIZ OFF THE GROUND YET.”]