“Well—good-bye!” wheezed the weather cock hoarsely. “You don’t need me to direct you now—you can follow the directions on the bottle. Here I go,” he finished sulkily, “here I go by the name of Bill!” “Don’t go,” begged Tatters, looking pleadingly at the old soldier. Now Grampa, remembering the splendid way Bill had fallen upon the bandits, had already relented, but he never apologized. “Company fall in!” he commanded gruffly, putting the wizard’s medicine in his pocket. Tatters winked at Bill and Bill, muttering something about having fallen in already, began to march down the cinder path. They had dropped into a small park surrounded by a hedge that grew up as high as they could see. A soft glow shone through the hedge and by its rosy light the three adventurers began to examine their surroundings with great interest. The park itself was pretty enough, but after marching entirely around it and finding no break in the hedge, Grampa looked rather worried. “It’s a good enough place for a picnic,” puffed the old soldier, dusting his game leg, “but then we’re not on a picnic!” “No,” sighed Tatters, sinking down on a bench, “we’re not on a picnic, for there’s nothing to eat.” “If you were made of iron like I am you would never be hungry,” crowed the weather cock, proudly. “I am glad I am cast in iron, but what shall we do now, Mr Grampa?” “Fly up and see how high the hedge is,” directed the old soldier, “while Tatters and I try to cut an opening.” Pleased to be of some service, Bill hurled himself upward, and Grampa with his sword and Tatters with his rusty pen knife began hacking at the hedge. But as fast as they cut away the twigs, others grew and after ten minutes hard work they gave up in despair. Then down came Bill with the discouraging news that he had flown as high as he could, and the top of the hedge was still nowhere in sight. “But the wind is blowing north,” finished the weather cock calmly. “Bother the wind!” sputtered Grampa. “Must we stay here till we starve,” groaned Tatters, “and never find my father’s head or the fortune at all?” “Fortune,” repeated Bill, putting his head on one side as if the word brought something to his mind. “Don’t worry about that, for I have already found the fortune.” And while Grampa and the Prince stared at him in amazement, he touched with his claw a tiny golden key. It was suspended on a thin chain round his neck and neither of them had noticed it before. “Why, where did you get that?” asked Tatters. “I picked it out of the robber chief’s pocket,” explained Bill, rolling his eyes from one to the other. “You’d make a fine bandit,” chuckled Grampa, “but that’s not a fortune, old fellow!” “Then what _is_ a fortune?” asked Bill, looking terribly disappointed. Grampa pulled his whiskers thoughtfully, for a fortune, when you come right down to it, is hard to explain. “Well,” he began slowly, “it might be gold, or jewels, or land. Anything precious and rare,” he finished hastily.