Then followed Harcourt, White, and another little boy, whose name was
Arthur, leaving Fred and Simon Pure in the middle of the road. The wood
was, undoubtedly, a very delightful place, and more than one fine
pheasant rustled amongst the underwood, and the squirrels leaped from
bough to bough, whilst the music of the birds was charming. Fred,
himself, was tempted as he peeped over the gap, and stood irresolute.
The plantation was far enough from the residence of the owner, nor was
it likely that they could do much mischief beyond frightening the game,
and as it was not sitting time, Fred himself argued it could do no harm,
but little Riches, the boy called Pure, who was a great admirer of Fred,
especially since the affair of the Dahlias, begged him not to go; "Mr.
Barton, you know, has such a great dislike to our trespassing," said
Riches, "and if we stay here resolutely they will be sure to come back."

"Don't preach to me," was the rather unexpected reply, for Fred was not
_perfect_ yet, though he had gained a victory or two over his temper of
late.

"I didn't mean to preach, but I do wish the boys would come home, it is
growing late; and with our heavy baskets we shall only just get in in
time."

"Halloo!" shouted Fred, getting on the bank. "Come back, won't you, or
we shall be too late; come, John, you are the eldest, come along." But
his call was drowned in the sound of their voices, which were echoing
through the weeds, much to the annoyance, no doubt, of the stately
pheasants who were not accustomed to human sounds like these. They were
not at any great distance, and Fred could just distinguish parts of
their conversation.