The Weathercock | Page 3

of remorse, "what an old
pepper-pot he is! I didn't mean to upset him. He began it,--now, didn't
he?"
"Yes, of course," said Gilmore. "Never mind. He'll soon come round."
"Oh, yes," said Macey. "I shouldn't take any notice. He'll forget it all
before night."
"But it seems so queer," said the lad, taking out and examining one of
his mushrooms. "I just came out for a walk, and to pick some of these to
have cooked for breakfast; and just as I've got a nice basketful, I come
upon you fellows, and you begin to chaff and play larks, and the next
moment I might have been knocking all the skin off my knuckles against
Distin's face, if I hadn't backed out--like a coward," he added, after a
pause.
"Oh, never mind," said the others.
"But I do mind," cried the lad. "I want to be friends with everyone. I
hate fighting and quarrelling, and yet I'm always getting into
hot-water."
"Better go and get your hands in now--with soap," said Macey, staring
at the soil-marks.
"Pooh! a rinse in the water-cress stream would take that off. Never
mind Distin: come home, you two."
"No, not this morning," said Gilmore.
"I won't ask you to taste the mushrooms: honour bright."

"Wouldn't come if you did," said Macey, with a merry laugh on his
handsome face. "Old Distie would never forgive us if we came home
with you now."
"No," said Gilmore; "he'd keep us awake half the night preaching at
you. Oh! here's old Syme."
"Ah, gentlemen, good-morning," said a plump, florid clergyman with
glittering glasses. "That's right, walk before breakfast. Good for
stamina. Must be breakfast time though. What have you got there,
Lee?"
"Fungi, sir."
"Hum! ha!" said the rector bending over the basket. "Which? Fungi,
soft as you pronounce it, or Fungi--Funghi, hard, eh?"
"Uncle says soft, sir," said Vane.
"Hum--ha--yes," said the rector, poking at one of the vegetable growths
with the forefinger of his gloved hand. "He ought to know. But, vulgo,
toadstools. You're not going to eat those, are you?"
"Yes, sir. Will you try a few?"
"Eh? Try a few, Lee? Thanks, no. Too much respect for my gastric
region. And look here; hadn't you better try experiments on Jamby's
donkey? It's very old."
"Wouldn't be any good, sir. Nothing would hurt him," said Vane,
laughing.
"Hum! ha! Suppose not. Well, don't poison one of my pupils--yourself.
Breakfast, gentlemen, breakfast. The matutinal coffee and one of
Brader's rolls, not like the London French, but passably good; and
there is some cold stuffed chine."
"Cold stuffed chine!" said Vane, as he walked in the other direction.
"Why, these will be twice as good--if Martha will cook 'em. Nasty

prejudiced old thing!"
Ten minutes later he reached a gate where the remains of a fine old
avenue leading up to a low mossy-looking stone house, built many
generations back; and as he neared it, a pleasant odour, suggestive of
breakfast, saluted his nostrils, and he went round and entered the
kitchen, to be encountered directly by quite an eager look from its
occupant, as he made his petition.
The Weathercock--by George Manville Fenn
CHAPTER TWO.
AUNT AND UNCLE.
"No, Master Vane, I'll not," cried cook, bridling up, and looking as if an
insult had been offered to her stately person; "and if master and missus
won't speak, it's time someone else did."
"But I only want them just plainly stewed with a little butter, pepper,
and salt," said Vane, with the basket in his hand.
"A little butter and pepper and salt, sir!" cried cook reproachfully; "a
little rhubar' and magneshire, you mean, to keep the nasty pysonous
thinks from hurting of you. Really I do wonder at you, sir, a-going
about picking up such rubbish."
"But they're good food--good to eat."
"Yes, sir; for toads and frogs. Don't tell me, sir. Do you think I don't
know what's good Christian food when I see it, and what isn't?"
"I know you think they're no good, but I want to try them as an
experiment."
"Life isn't long enough, sir, to try sperrymens, and I'd sooner go and
give warning at once than be the means of laying you on a bed of agony
and pain."

"Oh, well, never mind, cook, let me do them myself."
"What?" cried the stout lady in such a tone of indignant surprise that
the lad felt as if he had been guilty of a horrible breach of etiquette, and
made his retreat, basket and all, toward the door.
But he had roused Martha, who, on the strength of many years' service
with the doctor and his lady in London, had swollen much in mind as
well as grown stout in body, and she followed him to the kitchen-door
where he paused