The day grew brighter; tiny flecks of orange and gold began to appear
high up, then there was a warm glow in the east, with the birds chirping
merrily in the woodlands, and then day began.
But as the morning brightened Syd's spirits grew cloudy, and as they
reached another patch of wood through which ran a little stream, he
stopped short, looking anxiously along the road in both directions.
"We can't go home like this, Pan," he said. "It would be horrid."
"Well, I don't want to go home, do I?" grumbled the boy, in an ill-used
tone.
"We shall have to hide here in the wood till night, and we can dry and
clean our muddy clothes and have a good wash before then."
"And what are we to get to eat?"
"Blackberries, and sloes, and nuts."
"Oh yes, and pretty stuff they are. One apple off the big old tree's
worth all the lot here."
"Can't help it, Pan. We must do the best we can."
"Don't let's go back, Master Syd. You can't tell how rope's-end hurts.
Alter your mind, and let's go and seek our fortunes somewhere."
"This way," said Syd, by way of answer; and pointing off the road, the
two lads plunged farther and farther into the wood, keeping close to the
little stream, which had cut its way deep down below the level; so that
it was some time before they came to an open sandy spot, where, with the
bright morning sun shining full upon them, they had a good refreshing
wash; and soon after, as they sat in a sunny nook where the sand was
deep and dry, first one and then the other nodded off to sleep.
It was late in the afternoon before Syd awoke, to look up anxiously
about before the full force of his position dawned upon him; and feeling
faint and more low-spirited than had ever been his lot before, he sat
there thinking about what he had to go through.
As near as he could judge they were about five miles from the Heronry,
and two hours before it grew dark would be ample time for their journey.
"I may as well let him sleep," said Syd. "He'll only want to go away,
and we can't do that."
Then, in spite of his efforts to the contrary, his mind began to dwell
upon home and the various meals. Just about dusk the dinner would be
ready, and his father and uncle sitting down, while he--
"Oh, I do feel so hungry!" he muttered. "I'd give anything for some
bread and cheese."
He went to the side of the little stream, lay down, and placing his lips
to the clear cool water, drank heartily a draught that was refreshing,
but did not allay his hunger; and after sitting down and thinking for a
time, he put his hands in his pockets and felt his money. But it was of
no use out there in the woods.
He sat thinking again, wishing now that they had gone on in spite of
their condition, for then the trouble would have been over, and he would
have had food, if it had only been bread and water.
"Oh dear! I can't bear this any longer!" he said, suddenly jumping up.
"We must get something to eat if it's only nuts. Here, Pan, Pan!"
He touched the boy with his foot, but it had no effect; and bending
down, he took one arm and shook it.
The effect was magical. Pan sat up, fending his face with his arm, and
apostrophising some imaginary personage, as he fenced and complained.
"Oh, don't! I'll never do so no more. Oh, please! Oh, I say! It
hurts!--You, Master Syd?"
"Yes; who did you think it was?"
"My father with the rope's-end and--oh, I say, I am so stiff and sore,
and--have you got anything to eat?"
Sydney shook his head despondingly.
"I was waking you up to come and try and find some."
"There's lots o' rabbits about here," grumbled Pan, "if we could catch
some."
"Yes, and hares too, Pan, if we had a good gun. Come along."
They rambled along by the stream, finding before long a blackthorn laden
with sloes, of which Pan ate two, and Sydney contented himself with half
of one. Then they were voted a failure, and the blackberries growing in
a sunny, open spot were tried with no better result.
At the end of another quarter of an hour a clump of hazel stubs came in
view--fine old nut-bearers, with thickly mossed stumps, among which grew
clusters of light golden buff fungi looking like cups; but though these
were good for food, in the eyes of the boys they were simply toadstools,
and passed over for the sake of the fringed nuts which hung in twos and
threes, even here and there in fours and fives.
It did not take long to get a capful of these, and they soon sat down to
make their _al fresco_ meal.
Another disappointment! The nuts, as they cracked them, were, with a
few exceptions, full of a blackish dust, and the exceptions contained in
addition a poor watery embryo of a nut that was not worth the cracking
to obtain.
They gave up the food hunt in despair, for there was no cultivated land
near, where a few turnips might have been obtained; and wandering slowly
back they at last reached the road.
The search had not been, though, without result--it had taken time; and
when they reached the solitary road the sun was so near setting, that
after a final protest from Pan, Syd started at once for home and the
scenes they had to face.
The route they had chosen for their flight was the most solitary leading
from Southbayton. It was but little used, leading as it did right out
into the forest, and in consequence they had it almost to themselves
while the light lasted, and after dark they did not pass a soul as they
made their way to the Heronry, under whose palings they stood at last to
debate in whispers on the next step.
Pan was for flight after they had been on into the town and bought some
bread and cheese; but the position in which they were brought out
Sydney's best qualities.
"No," he said, "we've done wrong, and I'll face it out."
"But I won't--I can't," whimpered Pan. "How do I know as father isn't
waiting just inside the gate with that there bit of rope?"
"You must, and you shall come back, Pan," said Sydney, decisively.
"It's of no use to kick against it. Am I to hit you again?"
"I d' know," whimpered Pan. "I'm the most miserable chap as ever was.
Every one's agen me. Even you knocks me about, and I didn't think it of
you, Master Syd--I didn't; I thought you would be my friend."
"So I am, Pan, only you don't know it. Come now, get up. Go in with
me, and let's walk straight in to the dining-room, and ask father to
forgive us."
"I would ha' done it at first," whimpered Pan, "but I can't now."
"Why?"
"'Cause I'm so 'orrid hungry."
"Well, so am I. Father will give us plenty to eat as soon as he knows.
Come along; it's only a scolding."
"No, Master Syd, I dursen't. You go and ask him to forgive you, and to
order father not to hit me. P'r'aps I might be able to come then."
"You are the most horrid coward I ever knew," cried Sydney, impatiently.
"Do you think I don't feel how terrible it is to go and tell father
I've done wrong? I'd give anything to be able to run right away."
"Come along, can't yer, Master Syd. Never mind being hungry; come on."
"No, Pan, I can't. Now then, don't try to sneak out of it. Come and
face them, like a man."
"But I arn't a man, Master Syd, and I can't stir now. Oh dear! oh dear!
what will father say?"
"That I've got you at last," roared a gruff voice. "Hi! I've got 'em--
here they are!"