Saddlebank pleaded that he had missed his way on presenting himself ten minutes after time.  To me and Temple he breathed of goose, but he shunned us; he had no fun in him till Saturday afternoon, when Catman called out to hear if we were for cricket or a walk.

‘A walk on the downs,’ said Saddlebank.

Temple and I echoed him, and Saddlebank motioned his hand as though he were wheedling his goose along.  Saddlebank spoke a word to my commissioners.  I was to leave the arrangements for the feast to him, he said.  John Salter was at home unwell, so Saddlebank was chief.  No sooner did we stand on the downs than he gathered us all in a circle, and taking off his cap threw in it some slips of paper.  We had to draw lots who should keep by Catman out of twenty-seven; fifteen blanks were marked.  Temple dashed his hand into the cap first ‘Like my luck,’ he remarked, and pocketed both fists as he began strutting away to hide his desperation at drawing a blank.  I bought a substitute for him at the price of half-a-crown,—­Drew, a fellow we were glad to get rid of; he wanted five shillings.  The feast was worth fifty, but to haggle about prices showed the sneak.  He begged us to put by a taste for him; he was groaned out of hearing.  The fifteen looked so wretched when they saw themselves divided from us that I gave them a shilling a-piece to console them.  They took their instructions from Saddlebank as to how they were to surround Catman, and make him fancy us to be all in his neighbourhood; and then we shook hands, they requesting us feebly to drink their healths, and we saying, ay, that we would.

Temple was in distress of spirits because of his having been ignominiously bought off.  Saddlebank, however, put on such a pace that no one had leisure for melancholy.  ’I’ll get you fellows up to boiling point,’ said he.  There was a tremendously hot sun overhead.  On a sudden he halted, exclaiming:  ‘Cooks and gridirons! what about sage and onions?’ Only Temple and I jumped at the meaning of this.  We drew lots for a messenger, and it was miserable to behold an unfortunate fellow touch Saddlebank’s hand containing the notched bit of stick, and find himself condemned to go and buy sage and onions somewhere, without knowing what it was for how could he guess we were going to cook a raw goose!  The lot fell to a boy named Barnshed, a big slow boy, half way up every class he was in, but utterly stupid out of school; which made Saddlebank say:  ‘They’ll take it he’s the bird that wants stuffing.’  Barnshed was directed where to rejoin us.  The others asked why he was trotted after sage and onions.  ‘Because he’s an awful goose,’ said Saddlebank.