Tom Lee had not been overtaken by his father’s telegram; it was he who stood there, half sorry for the Kites, but with a youngster’s love of climbing, and a keen desire to see the eggs. Now he fixed a short iron bar into the ground at the top of the cliff, and to this he fastened a stout rope. There would be just light enough to do the deed that day, and to-morrow he would travel home with the rent of one house and the spoil of another in his bag. Taking off his waterproof, and slinging on his shoulder a small basket full of cotton-wool, he seized the rope and let himself down it. As he hung in mid-air he thought he heard a call on the hill, and arriving safely on the ledge, he stood for a moment and listened. There it was again, not the Baron’s angry cry, nor yet the Baroness’s wail. But there was no time to lose, and with firm grasp of hand and foot he began to climb the oak. The boughs were sound and strong; all that was needed was a nimble frame and a steady head, and of both these Tom had been possessed from his earliest boyhood. In three minutes the eggs were within his reach, and in another they were within the basket, safely covered up in the cotton-wool. At this moment the call caught his ear again, and ere he descended he paused to listen once more, and began to fear that some other human being was on that lonely hill. The Baron and the Baroness, who had been flying about him, though not daring to attack so formidable a foe, flew further and further away with heart-piercing cries as Tom descended the tree safely, gripped his rope again, and swarmed up it to the cliff-top. No sooner was he safe and sound on terra firma, than a figure emerged from the drizzling mist and advanced towards him. Tom’s heart quaked within him; was it the angry spirit of the mountains, or a constable come to carry out a new County Council order? But in another moment he saw that it was his father, wet through and with an excited glow in his eyes. “Why, dad,” he said, “I thought you were the Old Man of the Mountain. Was it you that called? Well, I’m blest,—you’ll catch your death of cold!” “I’ve been calling ever so long,” said his father, out of breath. “I couldn’t have found you but for the Kites. Didn’t you get my telegram?” “Not I,” answered Tom; “we don’t get telegrams up to time in these parts. But here’s the rent all safe, dad.” And he opened the basket. The father looked with eager eyes at those beautiful eggs, and handled one gently with the deepest professional admiration. “Well,” he said, quietly, “now you’ve been down there once, you may as well go again. You just go and put ’em straight back, my lad.” Tom stared at his father, and thought the old man had gone clean daft. At that moment the Kites returned, and came wheeling overhead with loud melancholy cries.