Oh that somebody had come by to see them thus on the very best terms, as loving as when they whipped tops together, or practised Sir Roger de Coverley! They agreed to slip away that evening from the noise of the guests and the winebibbing, and have a quiet jug of ale in Cradockʼs little snuggery. There they would smoke their pipes together, and consider the laws of inheritance. Already they were beginning to laugh and joke about the matter; what odds about the change of position, if they only maintained the brotherhood? Unluckily no one came near them. The servants were gathered in their own hall, discussing the great discovery; Sir Cradock was gone to the Rectory to meet John Rosedew upon his return, and counsel how to manage things. Even the ubiquitous Dr. Hutton had his especial _alibi_. He had rushed away to catch Mr. Garnet and the illumination folk, that the necessary changes might be made in the bedizenment of the oak–tree. Suddenly Clayton exclaimed, “Oh, what a fool I am, Craddy! I forgot a most important thing, until it is nearly too late for it”. “What”? asked Cradock, eagerly, for he saw there was great news coming. “When I was out with the governor to–day, what do you think I saw”? “What, what, my boy? Out with it”. “Canʼt stop to make you guess. A woodcock, sir; a woodcock”. “A woodcock so early? Nonsense, man; it must have been a hawk or a night–jar”. “Think I donʼt know a woodcock yet? And Iʼll tell you who saw it, too. Glorious old Mark Stote; his eyes are as sharp as ever. We marked him down to a T, sir, just beyond the hoar–witheys at the head of Coffin Wood; and I should have been after him two hours ago if it had not been for this rumpus. I meant to have had such a laugh at you, for I would not have told you a word of it; but now you shall go snacks in him. Even the governor does not know it”. “Fancy killing a woodcock in the first week of October”! said Cradock, with equal excitement; “why, theyʼll put us in the paper, Viley”. “Not unless you look sharp. Heʼs sure to be off at dusk. Heʼs a traveller, as Mark Stote said: sailed on from the Wight, most likely, last night; heʼll be off for Dorset, this evening. Run for your gun, Crad, your pet Purday; Iʼll meet you here with my Lancaster in just two minutes’ time. Donʼt say a word to a soul. Mind, weʼll go quite alone”. “Yes; but you bring your little Wena, and Iʼll take my Caldo, and work him as close as possible. I promised him a run this afternoon”. Away they ran, out of different doors, to get their guns and accoutre themselves; while the poor tired woodcock sitting on one leg, under a holly bush, was drawing up the thin quivering coverlet over his great black eyes.