But as they sat on the railing across the isthmus swinging their legs, Mark remembered that there were some fir-poles which had been cut a long time since behind the great wood-pile, between it and the walnut-trees, out of sight. Without a word away they ran, chose one of these and carried it into the shed where Bevis usually worked. They had got the dead bark off and were shaving away when it was dinner-time, which they thought a bore, but which wise old Pan, who was never chained now, considered the main object of life. Next morning as they went through the meadow, where the dew still lingered in the shade, on the way to the bathing-place, taking Pan with them this time, they hung about the path picking clover-heads and sucking the petals, pulling them out and putting the lesser ends in their lips, looking at the white and pink bramble flowers, noting where the young nuts began to show, pulling down the woodbine, and doing everything but hasten on to their work of swimming. They stopped at the gate by the New Sea, over whose smooth surface slight breaths of mist were curling, and stood kicking the ground and the stones as flighty horses paw. “We ought to be something,” said Mark discontentedly. “Of course we ought,” said Bevis. “Things are very stupid unless you are something.” “Lions and tigers,” said Mark, growling, and showing his teeth. “Pooh!” “Shipwrecked people on an island.” “Fiddle! They have plenty to do and are always happy, and we are not.” “No; very unhappy. Let’s try escaping--prisoners running away.” “Hum! Hateful!” “Everything’s hateful.” “So it is.” “This is a very stupid sea.” “There’s nothing in it.” “Nothing anywhere.” “Let’s be hermits.” “There’s always only one hermit.” “Well, you live that side,” (pointing across), “and I’ll live this.” “Hermits eat pulse and drink water.” “What’s pulse?” “I suppose it’s barley water.” “Horrid.” “Awful.” “You say what we shall be then.” “Pan, you old donk,” said Bevis, rolling Pan over with his foot. Lazy Pan lay on his back, and let Bevis bend his ribs with his foot. “Caw, caw!” a crow went over down to the shore, where he hoped to find a mussel surprised by the dawn in shallow water. Bang! “Hoi! Hoo! Yah!” The discharge was half a mile away, but the crow altered his mind, and flew over the water as near the surface as he could without touching. Why do birds always cross the water in that way? “That’s Tom,” said Mark. Tom was the bird-keeper. He shot first, and shouted after. He potted a hare in the corn with bits of flint, a button, three tin tacks, and a horse-stub, which scraped the old barrel inside, but slew the game. That was for himself. Then he shouted his loudest to do his duty--for other people. The sparrows had flown out of the corn at the noise of the gun, and settled on the hedge; when Tom shouted they were frightened from the hedge, and went back into the wheat. From which learn this, shoot first and shout after.