Phoena furnished them with an object on which to expend their zeal.
In a certain village, Playden by name, through which they had driven, coming from the station, she had noticed a thrush hung up in a cage outside a cobbler’s door. The poor bird was beating itself so wildly against the bars that Phoena felt certain that it could not have been bred in its wicker prison, and must, therefore, have been only recently captured.
“Now that really is a poor distressed creature that ought to be succoured,” she declared; “I’ve thought of it ever since I saw it.”
“It shall regain its liberty before sunset,” said Jack, solemnly.
“And vengeance shall overtake its persecutors,” added Phil.
“If necessary the whole cottage shall be burnt to the ground, as a warning to all the surroundings,” added Andrew.
“I’ve got a whole big match box in my pocket,” whispered Hubert to Phil.
“Bring it with you,” replied the latter, to Hubert’s excessive joy.
“How far off is the village?” asked Fay, not daring to show the immense alarm with which the prospect of this punitive expedition filled her.
“Oh!” said Phoena, who had evidently given much thought to the subject, “it’s only about a mile off; if the boys go now they will have plenty of time to free the captive and return for dinner.”