“Why? All that Heffy has found is a hut. He and Foxy will watch it. It’s nothing to do with us; only we mustn’t be seen that way for a bit.” “Yes, and where else are we to go?” said Beetle. “You chose that place, too--an’--an’ I wanted to read this afternoon.” Stalky sat on a desk drumming his heels on the form. “You’re a despondin’ brute, Beetle. Sometimes I think I shall have to drop you altogether. Did you ever know your Uncle Stalky forget you yet? _His rebus infectis_--after I’d seen Heffy’s man-tracks marchin’ round our hut, I found little Hartopp--_destricto ense_--wavin’ a butterfly-net. I conciliated Hartopp. ’Told him that you’d read papers to the Bug-hunters if he’d let you join, Beetle. ’Told him you liked butterflies, Turkey. Anyhow, I soothed the Hartoffles, and we’re Bug-hunters now.” “What’s the good of that?” said Beetle. “Oh, Turkey, kick him!” In the interests of science bounds were largely relaxed for the members of the Natural History Society. They could wander, if they kept clear of all houses, practically where they chose; Mr. Hartopp holding himself responsible for their good conduct. Beetle began to see this as McTurk began the kicking. “I’m an ass, Stalky!” he said, guarding the afflicted part. “_Pax_, Turkey. I’m an ass.” “Don’t stop, Turkey. Isn’t your Uncle Stalky a great man?” “Great man,” said Beetle. “All the same bug-huntin’s a filthy business,” said McTurk. “How the deuce does one begin?” “This way,” said Stalky, turning to some fags’ lockers behind him. “Fags are dabs at Natural History. Here’s young Braybrooke’s botany-case.” He flung out a tangle of decayed roots and adjusted the slide. “’Gives one no end of a professional air, I think. Here’s Clay Minor’s geological hammer. Beetle can carry that. Turkey, you’d better covet a butterfly-net from somewhere.” “I’m blowed if I do,” said McTurk, simply, with immense feeling. “Beetle, give me the hammer.” “All right. _I_’m not proud. Chuck us down that net on top of the lockers, Stalky.” “That’s all right. It’s a collapsible jamboree, too. Beastly luxurious dogs these fags are. Built like a fishin’-rod. ’Pon my sainted Sam, but we look the complete Bug-hunters! Now, listen to your Uncle Stalky! We’re goin’ along the cliffs after butterflies. Very few chaps come there. We’re goin’ to leg it, too. You’d better leave your book behind.” “Not much!” said Beetle, firmly. “I’m not goin’ to be done out of my fun for a lot of filthy butterflies.” “Then you’ll sweat horrid. You’d better carry my Jorrocks. ’Twon’t make you any hotter.” They all sweated; for Stalky led them at a smart trot west away along the cliffs under the furze-hills, crossing combe after gorzy combe. They took no heed to flying rabbits or fluttering fritillaries, and all that Turkey said of geology was utterly unquotable.