The Weathercock | Page 2

of the three well-dressed youths, all pupils reading with the
Reverend Morton Syme, at the Rectory, Mavis Greythorpe,
Lincolnshire, gave a sidelong glance at his companions and advanced a
step.
"Let's look," he said.
The bearer of the basket raised his left hand with his fungoid booty,
frankly trusting, and his fellow-pupil delivered a sharp kick at the
bottom of the wicker receptacle--a kick intended to send the golden
chalice-like fungi flying scattered in the air. But George Vane Lee was
as quick in defence as the other was in attack, and his parry was made
in the easiest and most effortless way.
It was just this:--
He let the basket swing down and just passed his right hand forward,
seeming only to brush the assailant's ankle--in fact it was the merest
touch, but sufficient to upset the equilibrium of a kicker on one leg, and
the next moment Lance Distin was lying on his back in a perfect tangle
of brambles, out of which he scrambled, scratched and furious, amidst a
roar of laughter from his companions.
"You beggar!" he cried, with his dark eyes flashing, and a red spot in
each of his sallow cheeks.
"Keep off!" cried the mushroom bearer, backing away. "Lay hold of
him, Gilmore--Aleck!"

The lads addressed had already caught at the irate boy's arms.
"Let go, will you!" he yelled. "I'll let him know."
"Be quiet, or we'll all sit on you and make you."
"I'll half kill him--I'll nearly break his neck."
"No, don't," said the boy with the basket, laughing. "Do you want your
leave stopped? Nice you'd look with a pair of black eyes."
"You can't give them to me," roared the lad, passionately, as he still
struggled with those who held him, but giving them little trouble in
keeping him back.
"Don't want to. Served you right. Shouldn't have tried to kick over my
basket. There, don't be in such a temper about that."
"I'll pay you for it, you miserable cad!"
"Don't call names, Distie," said the lad coolly. "Those who play at
bowls must expect rubbers. Let him go, boys; he won't hurt me."
It was a mere form that holding; but as the detaining pair loosened their
hold, Lance Distin gave himself a violent wrench, as if he were
wresting himself free, and then coloured to the roots of his hair, as he
saw the laugh in his adversary's eyes.
"Distie's got no end of Trinidad sun in him yet.--What a passionate
fellow you are, Cocoa. I say, these are good, really. Come home with
me and have breakfast."
Lance Distin, son of a wealthy planter in the West Indies, turned away
scornfully, and the others laughed.
"Likely," said Fred Gilmore, showing his white teeth. "Why, I wouldn't
poison a cat with them."
"No," said Aleck Macey; "I know."

"Know what?"
"It's a dodge to make a job for his uncle, because the doctor can't get
any practice."
"Don't want any," said the lad, good-humouredly. "If he did, he'd go
back to Savile Row."
"Not he," snarled Distin, pausing in his occupation of removing thorns
from his jacket. "Killed all his patients, and was obliged to run away
into the country."
"That's it!" said Vane Lee, with a laugh. "What a clever chap you are,
Distie; at least you would be if your tongue wasn't quite so sharp. There,
shake hands, I didn't mean to hurt you."
He stretched out rather a dirty hand, at which the young Creole gave a
contemptuous glance, looked at his own white fingers, and thrust them
into his pockets.
"Ah, well, they are dirty," said Vane, laughing. "No, they're not. It's
only good old English soil. Come on. Uncle will be glad to see you,
and then we'll all walk up to the Rectory together."
Crick!
Distin struck a match, and, with a very haughty look on his thin face,
began to puff at a cigarette which he had taken from a little silver case,
Vane watching him scornfully the while, but only to explode with mirth
the next moment, for the young West Indian, though he came from
where his father's plantations produced acres of the pungent weed, was
not to the manner born, and at the third draw inhaled so much acrid
smoke that he choked, and stood coughing violently till Vane gave him
a hearty slap on his back.
Down went the cigarette, as Distin made a bound forward.
"You boor!" he coughed out; and, giving the lad a malevolent look, he

turned haughtily to the others.
"Are you fellows coming home to breakfast?"
He did not pause for an answer, but walked off sharply in the direction
of the Rectory, a quarter of a mile from the little sleepy town.
"Oh, I say," cried Vane, in a tone full