Crown and Sceptre | Page 2

flashed in the bright sunshine.
"Whoa hoo! whoa hoo! Drop it! Hoi!" shouted the boy; but the object
addressed, a great grey heron, paid no heed, but went flapping slowly

away on its widespread wings, its long legs stretched straight out
behind to act as balance, and a small eel writhing and twisting itself
into knots as it strove in vain to escape from the scissor-like bill.
"That's where the eels go," muttered the boy, as he hurried on,
descending till he reached the shores of the lake, and then skirting it,
with eyes searching its sunlit depths, to see here some golden-bronze
pike half-hidden among lily leaves, shoals of roach flashing their silver
sides in the shallows, and among the denser growth of weeds
broad-backed carp basking in the hot sunshine, and at times lazily
rolling over to display their golden sides.
"Oh yes, you're big and old enough, but you don't half bite. I'd rather
have a day at our moat any time than here, proud as old Scar is of his
big pond."
As the lad reached the head of the lake, where the brown, clear waters
of a rocky stream drained into it from the moor above, he caught sight
of a few small trout, and, after crossing a little rough stone bridge,
startled a couple of moor-hens, who in turn roused up some bald coots,
the whole party fluttering away with drooping legs towards the other
end of the lake. Here they swam about, twitching their tails, and
dividing their time between watching the now distant intruder and
keeping a sharp look-out for the great pike, which at times sought a
change of diet from constant fish, and swallowed moor-hen or duckling,
or even, preferring four-footed meat to fowl, seized upon some
unfortunate rat.
"Hi, Nat!" shouted the boy, as he neared the grassy terrace in front of
the hall, and caught sight of a sturdy-looking young man busy in the
garden.
"Hullo, Master Fred!"
"Where's Master Scarlett?"
"Where's Master Scarlett, sir?" said the man, slowly and deliberately
straightening his back, and resting upon the tool he handled.

"Yes. Don't you say he has gone with them, or I'll never give you a mug
of cider again."
"Well, I wasn't going to say as Master Scar's gone with 'em," said the
man, with a look of wonder in his eyes. "He was here a bit ago, though
I didn't see him."
"Then, how do you know he was here?"
"Because nobody else wouldn't--"
"Wouldn't what?"
"Well, you see, Master Fred, it was like this here. I was a-stooping over
the bed, tidying up the edge o' the grass, when--whop!"
"What, did he hit you, Nat!" said the boy, grinning.
"Well, sir, he did and he didn't, if you can understand that."
"No, I can't. What do you mean?"
"This here fox-whelp come and hit me side o' the head, and it must ha'
been him as throwed it; and that made me know as he was at home."
As the man spoke, he took a cider apple from his pocket, a hard, green,
three-parts-grown specimen of the fruit, and involuntarily began to rub
the place where he had been struck.
"Yes; that looks as if he was at home, Nat," said the boy, showing his
white teeth.
"Yes, Master Fred, that looks as if he was at home; but you wouldn't
have laughed if you'd had it."
"He did it to wake you up, Nat."
"Oh, I was waken enough, Master Fred; but how's Brother Samson?"

"Like you, Nat, half asleep," cried the boy, looking back as he hurried
on toward the house, leaving the man staring after him thoughtfully.
"Yes," he muttered, "Samson is a deal like me. Wonder whether Master
Fred ever chucks apples at he?"
Meanwhile the lad addressed as Master Fred made his way along the
house front, peering in at first one and then another window, till he
reached the great door opening on to the end of the shingled terrace.
Without the slightest hesitation, and behaving like one who was quite at
home, he entered the great oak-floored hall, and looked round--not at
the groups of weapons and suits of armour that were arranged as
trophies about the place, nor yet at the pictures and various interesting
objects hung between the stained-glass windows, on the oaken panels
surrounded by carving and surmounted by the heads and antlers of deer
killed on the adjacent moor.
Fred Forrester had eyes for none of these objects, as he looked here and
there, now in the low-ceilinged and carved-oak dining-room, then in
the drawing-room, and, lastly, in Sir Godfrey Markham's library--a
gloomy, tree-shaded room, where he thought it possible that his friend
and companion might be hiding. But all was still, and there was no one