pping-stones--this being no other than what is now the Regent's
Park, not yet in any degree drained by the New River, but all quaking
ground, overgrown with rough grass and marsh-plants, through which
Stephen and Ambrose bounded by the help of stout poles with feet and
eyes well used to bogs, and knowing where to look for a safe footing,
while many a flat-capped London lad floundered about and sank over his
yellow ankles or left his shoes behind him, while lapwings shrieked pee-
wheet, and almost flapped him with their broad wings, and moorhens dived
in the dark pools, and wild ducks rose in long families.

Stephen was able to turn the laugh against his chief adversary and
rival, George Bates of the Eagle, who proposed seeking for the lapwing's
nest in hopes of a dainty dish of plovers' eggs; being too great a
cockney to remember that in September the contents of the eggs were
probably flying over the heather, as well able to shift for themselves
as their parents.

Above all things the London prentices were pugnacious, but as every one
joined in the laugh against George, and he was, besides, stuck fast on a
quaking tussock of grass, afraid to proceed or advance, he could not
have his revenge. And when the slough was passed, and the slight rise
leading to the copse of Saint John's Wood was attained, behold, it was
found to be in possession of the lower sort of lads, the black guard as
they were called. They were of course quite as ready to fight with the
prentices as the prentices were with them, and a battle royal took
place, all along the front of the hazel bushes--in which Stephen of the
Dragon and George of the Eagle fought side by side. Sticks and fists
were the weapons, and there were no very severe casualties before the
prentices, being the larger number as well as the stouter and better
fed, had routed their adversaries, and driven them off towards Harrow.

There was crackling of boughs and filling of bags, and cracking of nuts,
and wild cries in pursuit of startled hare or rabbit, and though Ambrose
and Stephen indignantly repelled the idea of Saint John's Wood being
named in the same day with their native forest, it is doubtful whether
they had ever enjoyed themselves more; until just as they were about to
turn homeward, whether moved by his hostility to Stephen, or by envy at
the capful of juicy blackberries, carefully covered with green leaves,
George Bates, rushing up from behind, shouted out, "Here's a