My legs were hurting dreadfully, so I pulled down my stockings to look, and there were a lot of great white lumps; that was rather nice, because sometimes things are horrid, like earache, with nothing to show for it and all waste. So I sent Humphrey for some dock leaves, but he couldn’t find any, though when you aren’t wanting them, you are always seeing them. He said that if you rubbed on the milk of dandelions with a dead mole’s paw, it would do just as well, but then we hadn’t got a mole, except the one we are trying to tame on the tennis lawn, and he isn’t dead. Poor Humphrey looked quite unhappy when I told him this. He was quiet for a long time, and then he said, “I’ll go on lashing you with waxed thongs if you like.” I did think that nice of him. Generally if we quarrel, you might cut him up into little bits before he’d say he was wrong. So I thanked him but I said it didn’t matter, because we must hurry home. On Sundays we have tart for dinner, and if Mother’s at home there is generally cream, and even if Fräulein is stingy about that, I didn’t want to miss the tart, particularly as I knew that it was raspberry. I forgot to explain that if we are late for meals, we don’t have any pudding, at least at breakfast or tea it’s jam, unless there is a very good reason why we couldn’t help it. I dare say if I’d shown Fräulein my lumps on my legs she’d have excused me, but, of course, I wasn’t going to do that; I should have liked the little ones to have seen them though before they went down. They were very large lumps. It was when we were going along that I had the Great Idea. I was thinking about the tortures, because I knew Humphrey would want to do Salome, unless I could tell him of something else. “We’ll be Christian martyrs,” I said suddenly. “You shall be burnt.” Humphrey stood still in the middle of the road with his mouth open, like he does when he’s pleased. “When?” he asked at last. “After dinner,” I said. “Being Sunday makes it all the better. You shall be Latimer-Ridley-and-Hooper and tied to a stake and burnt.” It really is a convenient thing that Fräulein likes a nap on Sunday; we got rid of the little ones too because it was such a very great secret that we thought Mother wouldn’t mind. Then Humphrey and I crept silently up to the orchard; we are allowed there always, but it seemed to make it nicer to creep. Humphrey brought his dark lantern, but you can’t light it because it drops to pieces, and I believe he was thinking of Guy Fawkes, but he said I couldn’t be sure that Latimer-Ridley-and-Hooper didn’t have a lantern too.