They all sweated; for Stalky led them at a smart trot west away along
the cliffs under the furze-hills, crossing combe after gorzy combe.
They took no heed to flying rabbits or fluttering fritillaries, and
all that Turkey said of geology was utterly unquotable.

"Are we going to Clovelly?" he puffed at last, and they flung
themselves down on the short, springy turf between the drone of the
sea below and the light summer wind among the inland trees. They were
looking into a combe half full of old, high furze in gay bloom that
ran up to a fringe of brambles and a dense wood of mixed timber and
hollies. It was as though one-half the combe were filled with golden
fire to the cliff's edge. The side nearest to them was open grass,
and fairly bristled with notice-boards.

"Fee-rocious old cove, this," said Stalky, reading the nearest.
"'_Prosecuted_with_the_utmost_rigour_of_the_law_. G. M. Dabney, Col.,
J.P.,' an' all the rest of it. 'Don't seem to me that any chap in his
senses would trespass here, does it?"

"You've got to prove damage 'fore you can prosecute for anything!
'Can't prosecute for trespass," said McTurk, whose father held many
acres in Ireland. "That's all rot!"

"Glad of that, 'cause this looks like what we wanted. Not straight
across, Beetle, you blind lunatic! Anyone could spot us half a mile
off. This way; and furl up your beastly butterfly-net."

Beetle disconnected the ring, thrust the net into a pocket, shut up
the handle to a two-foot stave, and slid the cane-ring round his
waist. Stalky led inland to the wood, which was, perhaps, a quarter