“Fly up and see how high the hedge is,” directed the old soldier, “while Tatters and I try to cut an opening.” Pleased to be of some service, Bill hurled himself upward, and Grampa with his sword and Tatters with his rusty pen knife began hacking at the hedge. But as fast as they cut away the twigs, others grew and after ten minutes hard work they gave up in despair. Then down came Bill with the discouraging news that he had flown as high as he could, and the top of the hedge was still nowhere in sight. “But the wind is blowing north,” finished the weather cock calmly.
“Bother the wind!” sputtered Grampa.
“Must we stay here till we starve,” groaned Tatters, “and never find my father’s head or the fortune at all?”
“Fortune,” repeated Bill, putting his head on one side as if the word brought something to his mind. “Don’t worry about that, for I have already found the fortune.” And while Grampa and the Prince stared at him in amazement, he touched with his claw a tiny golden key. It was suspended on a thin chain round his neck and neither of them had noticed it before.
“Why, where did you get that?” asked Tatters.
“I picked it out of the robber chief’s pocket,” explained Bill, rolling his eyes from one to the other.
“You’d make a fine bandit,” chuckled Grampa, “but that’s not a fortune, old fellow!”
“Then what is a fortune?” asked Bill, looking terribly disappointed.
Grampa pulled his whiskers thoughtfully, for a fortune, when you come right down to it, is hard to explain.
“Well,” he began slowly, “it might be gold, or jewels, or land. Anything precious and rare,” he finished hastily.