“Come on, and let’s do it then,” cried Macey, starting to trot along the road. “I want to get the taste of Distin out of my mouth.—I say—”
“Well?”
“Don’t I wish his mother wanted him so badly that he was obliged to go back to the West Indies at once.—Hallo! Going to the wood?”
“Yes, I don’t mean to be beaten over those fungi we had the other day,” cried Vane; and to prove that he did not, he inveigled Macey into accompanying him into the woods that afternoon, to collect another basketful—his companion assisting by nutting overhead, while Vane busied himself among the moss at the roots of the hazel stubs.
“Going to have those for supper?” said Macey, as they were returning.
Vane shook his head. “I suppose I mustn’t take these home to-day after all.”
“Look here, come on with me to the rectory, and give ’em to Mr Syme.”
“Pooh!—Why, he laughed at them.”
“But you can tell him you had some for dinner at the Little Manor. I won’t say anything.”
“I’ve a good mind to, for I’ve read that they are delicious if properly cooked,” cried Vane. “No, I don’t like to. But I should like to give them to someone, for I don’t care to see them wasted.”