“Oh yes, do let us go,” said Arthur; “I never saw a hawk’s nest nor a hawk’s egg.”

“You just come down to my study, then, and I’ll show you five sorts,” said Martin.

“Ay, the old Madman has got the best collection in the house, out and out,” said Tom; and then Martin, warming with unaccustomed good cheer and the chance of a convert, launched out into a proposed bird-nesting campaign, betraying all manner of important secrets—­a golden-crested wren’s nest near Butlin’s Mound, a moor-hen who was sitting on nine eggs in a pond down the Barby road, and a kingfisher’s nest in a corner of the old canal above Brownsover Mill.  He had heard, he said, that no one had ever got a kingfisher’s nest out perfect, and that the British Museum, or the Government, or somebody, had offered 100 pounds to any one who could bring them a nest and eggs not damaged.  In the middle of which astounding announcement, to which the others were listening with open ears, and already considering the application of the 100 pounds, a knock came to the door, and East’s voice was heard craving admittance.

“There’s Harry,” said Tom; “we’ll let him in.  I’ll keep him steady, Martin.  I thought the old boy would smell out the supper.”

The fact was, that Tom’s heart had already smitten him for not asking his fidus Achates to the feast, although only an extempore affair; and though prudence and the desire to get Martin and Arthur together alone at first had overcome his scruples, he was now heartily glad to open the door, broach another bottle of beer, and hand over the old ham-knuckle to the searching of his old friend’s pocket-knife.

“Ah, you greedy vagabonds,” said East, with his mouth full, “I knew there was something going on when I saw you cut off out of hall so quick with your suppers.  What a stunning tap, Tom!  You are a wunner for bottling the swipes.”

“I’ve had practice enough for the sixth in my time, and it’s hard if I haven’t picked up a wrinkle or two for my own benefit.”

“Well, old Madman, and how goes the bird-nesting campaign?  How’s Howlett?  I expect the young rooks’ll be out in another fortnight, and then my turn comes.”

“There’ll be no young rooks fit for pies for a month yet; shows how much you know about it,” rejoined Martin, who, though very good friends with East, regarded him with considerable suspicion for his propensity to practical jokes.

“Scud knows nothing and cares for nothing but grub and mischief,” said Tom; “but young rook pie, specially when you’ve had to climb for them, is very pretty eating.—­However, I say, Scud, we’re all going after a hawk’s nest to-morrow, in Caldecott’s Spinney; and if you’ll come and behave yourself, we’ll have a stunning climb.”

“And a bathe in Aganippe.  Hooray!  I’m your man.”

“No, no; no bathing in Aganippe; that’s where our betters go.”

“Well, well, never mind.  I’m for the hawk’s nest, and anything that turns up.”