John Young had brought their anvil, the 28 pound weight, for them to the bank, and it was shipped. He bought a small pot for boiling, the smallest size made, for them in Latten, also a saucepan, a tin kettle, and teapot. One of the wooden bottles, like tiny barrels, used to send ale out to the men in the fields, was filled with strong ale. Mark drew it in the cellar which had once been his prison, carefully filling it to the utmost, and this John got away for them rolled up in his jacket. The all-potent wand of the enchanter Barleycorn was held over him; what was there he would not have done for them? He was all the more ready to oblige them because since Mark’s imprisonment in the cellar, Bevis and Mark had rather taken his part against the Bailiff, and got him out of scrapes. Feeling that he had powerful friends at court, John did not trouble to work so hard. They called at the cottage for the pot and the other things, which were in a sack ready for them. Loo fetched the sack, and Bevis threw it over his shoulder. “I scoured them well,” said Loo. “They be all clean.” “Did you?” said Bevis. “Here,” searching his pocket. “O! I’ve only a fourpenny piece left.” He gave it to her. “I can cook,” said Loo wistfully, “and make tea.” This was a hint to them to take her with them; but away they strode unheeding. The tin kettle and teapot clashed in the sack. “I believe I saw Val behind that tree,” said Bevis. “He can’t see through a sack though,” said Mark. The wind was still very light, and all the morning was occupied in delivering this cargo. The cave or store-room was now crammed full, and they could not put any more without shelves. “That’s the last,” said Mark, dragging the heavy anvil in. “Except Pan.” “And my books,” said Bevis, “and ink and paper. We must keep a journal of course.” “So we must,” said Mark. “I forgot that. It will make a book.” “‘Adventures in New Formosa,’” said Bevis. “We’ll write it every evening after we’ve done work, don’t you see.” When they got home he put his books together--the Odyssey, Don Quixote, the grey and battered volume of ballads, a tiny little book of Shakespeare’s poems, of which he had lately become very fond, and Filmore’s rhymed translation of Faust. He found two manuscript books for the journal; these and the pens and ink-bottle could all go together in the final cargo with Pan. All the while these voyages were proceeding they had been thinking over how they should get away from home without being searched for, and had concluded that almost the only excuse they could make would be that they were going to spend a week or two with Jack. This they now began to spread about, and pretended to prepare for the visit. As they expected, it caused no comment. All that was said was that they were not to stop too long. Mamma, did not much like the idea of being left by herself, but then it was quite different to their being away in disgrace.