oodie, and when I
had beaten him unceasingly for a full quarter of an hour, in the vain
hope of persuading him to undertake even a gentle walk, he turned
treacherously to the right, and squeezed my best leg against the garden
wall. I bore it heroically, because I knew the Boodie was regarding me
sternly, but I could have wept bitterly; I don't know if all walls are
the same, but the _garden_ wall hurts very much."

"I wonder where Dicky gets all his stories," says Dulce, admiringly.

"He evolves them out of his inner consciousness," replies Sir Mark.

Meantime, Jacky draws nearer and nearer. He advances on the donkey--and
on them, at a furious pace. Surely, never was a lazy ass so ridden
before! Perhaps those watching him are under the impression that when
closer to them he will guide his steed to their right or to their left,
or at least steer clear of them in some way, but if so they are
mistaken.

Jacky is in his element. He gallops wildly up to them, with arms and
legs flying north and south, and his cap many miles behind. That hidden
sense that tells the young and artless one that the real meaning of all
fun is to take some one by surprise and frighten the life out of him, is
full upon him now.

"Out of my way," he shrieks, in frenzied accents almost, as he bears
down upon them. "Out of my way, I say, or he'll kill you; I can't pull
him in. He is running away with me!"

With this the wily young hypocrite gives the donkey a final kick with
his right heel, and dashes ungallantly into the very midst of them.

The confusion that follows is all his heart can desire. Great indeed is
the rout. Camp chairs are scattered broadcast; shawls strew the lawn;
Julia flies to the right, Dulce to the left; Portia instinctively finds
refuge behind Dicky Browne, who shows great gallantry on this memorable
occasion, and devotes himself to the service of the frail and weak.
Indeed, it is on record, that, in the height of his zeal, he encircled
Portia's waist with his arm, and cried aloud to the foe to "come on," as
he waited for victory or death.

Jacky flies past, and is presently seen urging on his wild career in the
little glade that leads to the wood. Once more they breathe, and order
is restored, to Gower's deep regret, as he has managed, in the _melee_,
to seize hold of Dulce's hand, and in an abstracted fashion has held it
ever since.

"That boy deserves a sound whipping," says Sir Mark, indignantly, who
is, neverthel