Jack became a little tired of Monsieur de Fronsac’s references to the Monstair. He never spoke of Bonaparte without tacking on the epithet. Of course, he had good reason for hating the First Consul if he had lost all his property and been compelled to teach for a living; but it was not the English way to call names—and always the same name. Jack set it down as one of the peculiarities of Frenchmen. That evening, after dinner, the conversation once more came back to the subject which was then discussed more often than any other among the good people of the south coast—the expected landing of the French. Mr. Bastable was inclined to think that with so long a coast-line open to him, and so many possible landing-places, Bonaparte would only have to choose his time carefully to be able, with any kind of luck, to make his descent. But Jack scoffed at the idea. "What about Nelson, and Collingwood, and Keith, cousin? They’d smash him before he got half-way across." "But Nelson is away in the Mediterranean, isn’t he? He can’t be everywhere at once, Jack." "And every one can’t be a Nelson, but we can do our best." "I wonder where Boney would think of landing. Somewhere west, not Pevensey like the Conqueror: too near London. The Conqueror sailed from Boulogne, didn’t he?" "Don’t think so, cousin: Boulogne isn’t in Normandy." "Still, I’m pretty sure it was Boulogne. Monsieur will know. We’ll ask him." "I’ll go and find him; hope I shan’t interrupt his flow of poetry." Jack hurried off, and learned that the tutor had gone out some little time before. "He said he were gwine fur a promenade," said the servant whom Jack asked. "Which way did he go?" "Down along by Congleton’s Hollow, sir." "Well, I’ll go after him. Tell your master I’ll be back soon." A footpath over the fields led to Congleton’s Hollow, about a mile and a half from the Grange. Jack had visited the spot in the afternoon with his cousin Arthur. They had climbed over the half-ruined wall, and wandered about in the dense plantation. Under the trees it was quite dim, even in daylight; and where there were no large trees the ground was thickly covered with a tangle of bushes and ferns. Blackberries and nuts grew in abundance, and the boys had gathered them by handfuls, regardless of scratches, or rents in their clothes. Rabbits scurried across the path from patches of tall brake; squirrels blinked out of the foliage. The place had a wild beauty of its own—the romantic charm of a spot seldom visited by men.