rs were put out.

"Botheration," said Trimble; "there's a boat ahead of us."

"Only some fisherman--he won't hurt," said Langrish.

But as we approached the spot we perceived, not one boat only, but two,
drawn up under the trees, and both empty. What was worse, they were Low
Heath boats, and bore the name of Jorrocks on their sterns.

The committee looked glum as our party stepped ashore and proceeded to
make fast our boats to the trees.

"Why can't Jorrocks send his excursionists somewhere else?" growled
Langrish; "I shouldn't wonder if they've bagged the Bottom."

The Camp Hill Bottom was a curious dell among the trees, almost in the
shape of a basin, with heather and gorse all round the top, and
beautiful velvety grass in the hollow. For a picnic it was an ideal
place: close to the water, sheltered from the wind, with plenty of room
to sit round, and an expanse of delightful heath and wood behind and on
either side.

It was on this heath, the legend went, that one of the most furious
battles in the Wars of the Roses was fought, and the Camp Hill marked
the place where Earl Warwick's standard waved during the engagement.
The Bottom was popularly supposed to have been hollowed out by some
monks, as a burial place for the slain; but their benevolent intention
had been thwarted by the swoop of a band of marauders, who preferred
robbing the slain to burying them, and left most of the monks dead in
their own grave.

There is little sign now of this tragic story about the quiet grass-
grown hollow, with its fringe of overhanging bushes and carpet of mossy
velvet.

Just at present, however, as we made our way to the spot, we had
something more important on our minds than Earl Warwick and the unlucky
monks. What if the Bottom was already bagged by a crowd of common
holidaymakers, and all our carefully planned picnic was to be spoiled by
their unwelcome intrusion?

It was too true. As we advanced we could hear sounds of revelry and
laughter, interspersed with singing and cheers. Who could it be? The
voices sounded suspiciously youthful. Suppose--just suppose that the--

Yes! It was too true! As we reached the edge and looked down on the
coveted dell the first sight which greeted our eyes was a party of Low
Heathens, sporting the day boys' colours spread out luxuriously on one
of the sloping banks, solacing themselves with provender and songs and
leap-frog!

I never saw twenty Philosophers look more blan