With one accord they tumbled to the notion. Such a jolly sight less "fag" to walk right into the Shrubbery without the painful necessity of fighting their way through its outskirts—a plan of campaign which, with disastrous results, they had twice tried before, on each occasion retiring as a routed and damaged rabble.
Singing and shouting and skitting, they slouched in straggling array to the Shrubbery. That morning gardeners had been busy lopping the tree branches, many of which were strewn on the ground. Some were green and damp, but others crackled crisply when trodden on.
"They'd burn like—like blazes," said Grain, not very brilliantly. "What say you, chaps, to lighting a fire where they've had theirs?"
"That'll be clinking," agreed Osbody. "Not on the spot they last used, though. I guess our squirts made that wet for the winter. A ripping score to make off them, wasn't it, boys?"
"Rather!" said Niblo, gleefully. "Some of them were coughing and rubbing their eyes all next day."
"True. Mr. Rooke looked in and asked if any of them wanted cough mixture, but they didn't bite!"
"Ha, ha! Buzz round, boys, and rake up the fuel. If I can't beat Robin Arkness at fire-making, I'll chew my boot-protectors for a week!"
Bold words. But there are days when fires simply will not burn as they should. Match after match was struck and thrust vainly into the newspapers which formed the foundation of the pile. Some black smoke rose in a languid way, but again and again a fitful breeze blew out the tiny flame.
"Somebody must be breathing hard," said Osbody, trying to hide his vexation beneath a show of humour. "Get round, boys, and fan it with your caps."
"Funny thing, this bad luck," Grain remarked. "When Arkness lights a fire it blazes up like billy-o inside half a minute."