"William, don't do that now," called his sister from the window.
"Uncle George is resting."

He deliberately drove the mowing machine into the middle of a garden
bed and left it there. He was beginning to feel desperate. Then:

"What _can_ I do?" he said bitterly to Ethel, who was still at the
window.

"You'd better find some quiet, improving hobby," she said unkindly as
she went away.

It is a proof of the utterly broken state of William's spirit that he
did actually begin to think of hobbies, but none of those that
occurred to him interested him. Stamp-collecting, pressed flowers,
crest-collecting--Ugh!

He set off down the road, his hands in his pockets and his brows drawn
into a stern frown. He amused himself by imagining Uncle George in
various predicaments, lost on a desert island, captured by pirates,
or carried off by an eagle. Then something in the window of a house he
passed caught his eye and he stopped suddenly. It was a stuffed bird
under a glass case. Now that was something _like_ a hobby, stuffing
dead animals! He wouldn't mind having that for a hobby. And it was
quite quiet. He could do it while Uncle George was resting. And it
must be quite easy. The first thing to do of course was to find a dead
animal. Any old thing would do to begin on. A dead cat or dog. He
would do bigger ones like bears and lions later on. He spent nearly an
hour in a fruitless search for a dead cat or dog. He searched the
ditches on both sides of the road and several gardens. He began to