The next morning it rained. Dorothy and I visited our dingue-trap but found nothing in it. We were inclined, however, to stay out in the rain behind a big tree, but Professor Smawl vetoed that proposition and sent me off to supply the larder with fresh meat.
I returned, mad and wet, with a dozen partridges and a white hare—brown at that season—and William cooked them vilely.
"I can taste the feathers!" said Professor Smawl, indignantly.
"There is no accounting for taste," I said, with a polite gesture of deprecation; "personally, I find feathers unpalatable."
"You may hand in your resignation this evening!" cried Professor Smawl, in hollow tones of passion.
I passed her the pancakes with a cheerful smile, and flippantly pressed the hand next me. Unexpectedly it proved to be William's sticky fist, and Dorothy and I laughed until her tears ran into Professor Smawl's coffee-cup—an accident which kindled her wrath to red heat, and she requested my resignation five times during the evening.
The next day it rained again, more or less. Professor Smawl complained of the cooking, demanded my resignation, and finally marched out to explore, lugging the reluctant William with her. Dorothy and I sat down behind the largest tree we could find.
I don't remember what we were saying when a peculiar sound interrupted us, and we listened earnestly.
It was like a bell in the woods, ding-dong! ding-dong! ding-dong!—a low, mellow, golden harmony, coming nearer, then stopping.
I clasped Dorothy in my arms in my excitement.