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THE WEATHERCOCK, BEING THE ADVENTURES OF A BOY WITH A BIAS, BY GEORGE
MANVILLE FENN.

CHAPTER ONE.

TOADSTOOLS!

"Oh, I say, here's a game! What's he up to now?"

"Hi! Vane! Old weathercock! Hold hard!"

"Do you hear? Which way does the wind blow?"

Three salutations shouted at a lad of about sixteen, who had just shown
himself at the edge of a wood on the sunny slope of the Southwolds, one
glorious September morning, when the spider-webs were still glittering
with iridescent colours, as if every tiny strand were strung with
diamonds, emeralds and amethysts, and the thick green moss that clothed
the nut stubbs was one glorious sheen of topaz, sapphire and gold. Down
in the valley the mist still hung in thick patches, but the sun's rays
were piercing it in many directions, and there was every promise of a
hot day, such as would make the shade of the great forest with its
acorn-laden oaks welcome, and the whole place tempting to one who cared
to fill pocket or basket with the bearded hazelnuts, already beginning
to show colour in the pale green husks, while the acorns, too, were
changing tint slightly, and growing too big for their cups.

The boy, who stood with his feet deep in moss, was framed by the long
lithe hazel stems, and his sun-browned face looked darker in the shade
as, bareheaded, his cap being tucked in the band of his Norfolk jacket,
he passed one hand through his short curly hair, to remove a dead leaf
or two, while the other held a little basket full of something of a
bright orange gold; and as he glanced at the three youths in the road,
he hurriedly bent down to rub a little loam from the knees of his
knickerbockers--loam freshly gathered from some bank in the wood.

"Morning," he said, as the momentary annoyance caused by the encounter
passed off. "How is it you chaps are out so early?"

"Searching after you, of course," said the first speaker. "What have
you got there?"

"These," said the lad, holding up his basket, as he stepped down amongst
the dewy grass at the side of the road. "Have some?"

"Have some? Toadstools?"

"Toad's grandmothers!" cried the lad. "They're all chanterelles--for
breakfast. Delicious."

The first of the three well-dressed youths, all pupils reading with the
Reverend Morton Syme, at the Rectory, Mavis Greythorpe, Lincolnshire,
gave a sidelong glance at his companions and advanced a