"Do what you like, only it happens I'm going to the qwarry to-morrow for
the hole day, and Matron is going to make me sandwiches to take."
"If you honestly think it is an honourable thing to do----" said Morris.
"I honestly do think so," I said.
"I believe you're right," he said. Then rather a footling idea struck
him.
"How would it be if we wrote a polite letter to the Doctor?" he asked.
"Not me," I said. "You may be sure that the Doctor, in his hard-eerned
vocation, doesn't want polite letters from me or even you. In fact, it
might so much anoy him that he might change his mind all together and
not put us on our honour at all, but merely say we were to keep bounds,
which would be deth to me. Not that I should do it in any case."
So after a lot more rot and jaw about his blessed honour, Morris came,
and the day was jolly fine to begin with, and we went well armed for
sport in genral. He had his butterfly-net and killing-bottle--a beestly
thing full of cemicals but merciful in its way, becorse when you put a
butterfly in and shut down the cork the butterfly becomes unconshus
without pane and dies pretty cumfortably. All the same, as Morris said
to me while we watched a lesser tortussshell passing away, "deth is
deth," and the killing bottle was the only part of natural history he
did not care about. Before we got to the qwarry he was wondering if the
cemicals in the bottle would be strong enough for a draggon-fly.