he was the smartest man in the
village, the most neatly dressed, always with money in his pocket.

It was common knowledge that his fortunate state arose from his
constitutional disability to observe those admirable laws which have
been passed for the protection of the English pheasants from all
dangers save the small shot of those who have them fed. Tom Cobb waged
war, a war of varying fortunes against the sacred bird. Sometimes for
a whole season he would sell the victims of the carnage of the war with
never a check to his ardor. In another season some prying gamekeeper
would surprise him glutting his thirst for blood and gold, and an
infuriated bench of magistrates would fine him. The fine was always
paid. Tom Cobb was one of those thrifty souls who lay up money against
a rainy day.

He turned at the sound of their coming; and he and the Twins greeted
one another with smiles of mutual respect. They rode on a few yards;
and then the Terror said, "By Jove!" stopped, slipped off his bicycle,
and wheeled it back to the gate. Erebus followed him more slowly.

"I've been wondering if you'd do me a favor, Tom," said the Terror.
"I've always wanted to know how to make a snare. I'll give you
half-a-crown if you'll teach me."

Tom Cobb's clear blue eyes sparkled at the thought of half-a-crown, but
he hesitated. He knew the Twins; he knew that with them a little
knowledge was a dangerous thing--for others. He foresaw trouble for
the sacred bird; he foresaw trouble for his natural foes, the
gamekeepers. He did not foresee trouble for the Twins; he knew them.
And very distinctly he saw half-a-crown.

He grinned and said slowly, "Yes, Master Terror, I'll be very 'appy to
teach you 'ow to make a snare."

"Thank you. I'll come around to-morrow afternoon, about two," said the
Terror gratefully.

"It _will_ be nice to know how to make snares!" cried Erebus happily as
they rode on. "I wonder we never thought of it before."

"We didn't want a fur stole before," said the Terror.

The next afternoon Erebus in vain entreated him to take her with him to
Tom Cobb's cottage to share the lesson in the art of making snares.
But the Terror would not. Often he was indulgent; often he was firm.
To-day he was firm.

He returned from his lesson with a serene face, but he said rather
sadly: "I've still a lot to learn. But come on: I've got to buy
something in Rowington."

They rode swiftly into Rowington, for the next day