nd we're
Bug-hunters now."

"What's the good of that?" said Beetle.

"Oh, Turkey, kick him!"

In the interests of science bounds were largely relaxed for the members
of the Natural History Society. They could wander, if they kept clear
of all houses, practically where they chose; Mr. Hartopp holding himself
responsible for their good conduct.

Beetle began to see this as McTurk began the kicking.

"I'm an ass, Stalky!" he said, guarding the afflicted part. "_Pax_,
Turkey. I'm an ass."

"Don't stop, Turkey. Isn't your Uncle Stalky a great man?"

"Great man," said Beetle.

"All the same bug-huntin's a filthy business," said McTurk. "How the
deuce does one begin?"

"This way," said Stalky, turning to some fags' lockers behind him. "Fags
are dabs at Natural History. Here's young Braybrooke's botany-case." He
flung out a tangle of decayed roots and adjusted the slide. "'Gives one
no end of a professional air, I think. Here's Clay Minor's geological
hammer. Beetle can carry that. Turkey, you'd better covet a
butterfly-net from somewhere."

"I'm blowed if I do," said McTurk, simply, with immense feeling.
"Beetle, give me the hammer."

"All right. I'm not proud. Chuck us down that net on top of the lockers,
Stalky."

"That's all right. It's a collapsible jamboree, too. Beastly luxurious
dogs these fags are. Built like a fishin'-rod. 'Pon my sainted Sam,
but we look the complete Bug-hunters! Now, listen to your Uncle Stalky!
We're goin' along the cliffs after butterflies. Very few chaps come
there. We're goin' to leg it, too. You'd better leave your book behind."

"Not much!" said Beetle, firmly. "I'm not goin' to be done out of my fun
for a lot of filthy butterflies."

"Then you'll sweat horrid. You'd better carry my Jorrocks. 'Twon't make
you any hotter."

They all sweated; for Stalky led them at a smart trot west away along
the cliffs under the furze-hills, crossing combe after gorzy combe. They
took no heed to flying rabbits or fluttering fritillaries, and all that
Turkey said of geology was utterly unquotable.

"Are we going to Clovelly?" he puffed at last, and they flung themselves
down on the short, springy turf between the drone of the sea below and
the light summer wind among the inland trees. They were looking into a
combe half full of old, high furze in gay bloom that ran up to a fringe
of brambles and a dense wood of mixed timber and hollies. It was as
though one-half the combe were filled with