lowly by the roadside, with more sand sticking to him
than could have been comfortable.

"Oh, what a big one!" cried Mercer. "I say, I must have him."

"For a bait for an eel or carp?" I said.

"No. To preserve."

"Let the poor thing be," I cried, and, thrusting a piece of stick under
the worm, I sent it flying amongst the wet grass.

"Ugh! you cruel wretch!" cried Mercer.

"Come, that's nice," I said. "Better than letting you put it in a box,
and carrying it in your hot pocket to kill."

"I shouldn't kill it, I should keep it in a pot of earth."

"Which would dry up, and the poor thing would crawl out and be trodden
upon. Come along."

But he would not come along, for Tom Mercer was a true naturalist at
heart, and found interest in hundreds of things I should have passed
over. For instance, that morning, as we strolled a little way along the
lane, we stopped to peer over the gate into a newly ploughed field at
some round-looking birds which rose directly with a loud whirr, and then
went skimming along, to glide over the hedge at the bottom and
disappear.

"Partridges," cried Mercer. "Daresay they've got a nest somewhere not
far from here. Oh, I do wish we had bought Magglin's gun. It is such a
handy one. You see we could keep it up in the loft, and take it to
pieces and bring it out without any one knowing, and shoot our own birds
to stuff."

"Mustn't shoot partridges. They're game," I said.

"Oh, I don't know," he replied. "We shouldn't want them to eat, only to
stuff, and--Hallo, look there! I haven't found one of those for ever so
long."

He climbed over the gate, and picked up something cream-coloured from
the hollow between two furrows.

"What is it?" I said, as he came back.

"Worm-eater," and he opened his hand.

"Why, it's a slug," I said. "Throw the nasty slimy thing away."

"'Tisn't slimy," he said, as I looked on with disgust at him poking the
long-shaped creamy creature with one finger, as it lay in the palm of
his left hand. "You feel it. Quite cool and dry."

"I'm not going to touch the nasty thing," I cried. "And what do you
mean by a worm-eater?"

"Mean he's one. See how long and thin he is. That's so that he can
creep down the worm-holes and catch the worms and eat 'em."

"Nonsense! Slugs live on lettuces and cabbages, and other green
things."

"These don't," said Mercer quietly; "they live on worms."

"How do you know?"

"Because my father told me, a