“My name is Panky,” said the one who had the watch, who wore his clothes reversed, and who had thought my father might be a poacher. “And mine Hanky,” said the other. “What do you think, Panky,” he added, turning to his brother Professor, “had we not better stay here till sunrise? We are both of us tired, and this fellow can make us a good fire. It is very dark, and there will be no moon this two hours. We are hungry, but we can hold out till we get to Sunchildston; it cannot be more than eight or nine miles further down.” Panky assented, but then, turning sharply to my father, he said, “My man, what are you doing in the forbidden dress? Why are you not in ranger’s uniform, and what is the meaning of all those quails?” For his seedling idea that my father was in reality a poacher was doing its best to grow. Quick as thought my father answered, “The Head Ranger sent me a message this morning to deliver him three dozen quails at Sunchildston by to-morrow afternoon. As for the dress, we can run the quails down quicker in it, and he says nothing to us so long as we only wear out old clothes and put on our uniforms before we near the town. My uniform is in the ranger’s shelter an hour and a half higher up the valley.” “See what comes,” said Panky, “of having a whippersnapper not yet twenty years old in the responsible post of Head Ranger. As for this fellow, he may be speaking the truth, but I distrust him.” “The man is all right, Panky,” said Hanky, “and seems to be a decent fellow enough.” Then to my father, “How many brace have you got?” And he looked at them a little wistfully. “I have been at it all day, sir, and I have only got eight brace. I must run down ten more brace to-morrow.” “I see, I see.” Then, turning to Panky, he said, “Of course, they are wanted for the Mayor’s banquet on Sunday. By the way, we have not yet received our invitation; I suppose we shall find it when we get back to Sunchildston.” “Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!” groaned my father inwardly; but he changed not a muscle of his face, and said stolidly to Professor Hanky, “I think you must be right, sir; but there was nothing said about it to me, I was only told to bring the birds.” Thus tenderly did he water the Professor’s second seedling. But Panky had his seedling too, and, Cain-like, was jealous that Hanky’s should flourish while his own was withering. “And what, pray, my man,” he said somewhat peremptorily to my father, “are those two plucked quails doing? Were you to deliver them plucked? And what bird did those bones belong to which I see lying by the fire with the flesh all eaten off them? Are the under-rangers allowed not only to wear the forbidden dress but to eat the King’s quails as well?” The form in which the question was asked gave my father his cue. He laughed heartily, and said, “Why, sir, those plucked birds are landrails, not quails, and those bones are landrail bones. Look at this thigh-bone; was there ever a quail with such a bone as that?”