“I see five crows ’s mawnin’,” they heard in Johnnie’s sepulchral voice.

“Really, now!  Catch any?”

“There wuss five crows.”

“Ah—­five?  That’s an odd number!  And what special ill-luck do you infer from five crows, Johnnie?”

“Someone’s goan to be sick,” said Johnnie, with joyous anticipation.

“Dear me!  That’s what five crows mean, is it?”

“Ouaie!”

“They didn’t go into particulars, I suppose,—­as to who it is likely to be, for instance, and the exact nature of the seizure?”

“They flew over to church there and settled in black trees.”

“Vicar, maybe, since they went that way.”

“Mebbe!”—­hopefully.

“Well, well!  Perhaps if we gave him a hint he might take some precautions.”

“Couldn’ tek nauthen ’d be any use ’gainst crows.  Go’zamin, they knows!”

“You’re just a confirmed old croaker, Johnnie.”

“A’n’t!” said Johnnie.

“Where’s our old friend Marielihou?”

“She’s a-busy,” said Johnnie, wriggling uncomfortably.

“Ah,—­killing something, I presume.  Is it going to keep fine for the next three or four weeks?”

“I don’ think.”

“You don’t, you little rascal?”

“You might do your best for us, Johnnie,” said Miss Penny, as they came through the gap in the wall.  “And if it keeps fine all the time I’ll give you—­let me see, I’ll give you a shilling when we go away.”

Johnnie’s avidious little claw reached out eagerly.

“Godzamin!” said he.  “Gimme it now, an’ I’ll do my best.”

“Earn it, my child,” said Miss Penny, and they went on up the road, leaving Johnnie scowling in the hedge.

“Well, where would you like to go to-day?” asked Graeme.  “Will you leave yourselves in my hands again?”

“I’m sure we can’t do better,” said Miss Penny heartily.  “Yesterday was a day of days.  What do you say, Meg?”

“It looks as though we were going to occupy a great deal of Mr. Graeme’s time,” said Meg non-committally.

“It could not possibly be better occupied,” he said exuberantly.

“And how about your story, Mr. Graeme?  Is it at a standstill?” asked Miss Penny.

“Not at all.  It’s getting on capitally.”

“Why, when do you work at it?”

“Oh,—­between times, and when the spirit moves me and I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Is that how one writes books?”

“Sometimes.  How do you feel about caves?”

“Ripping!  If there’s one thing we revel in it’s caves, principally because we know nothing about them.”

“Then we’ll break you in on Greve de la Ville.  They’re comparatively easy, and another day we’ll do the Boutiques and the Gouliots.  Then we can get a whole day full of caves by going round the island in a boat—­red caves and green caves and black caves and barking-dog caves—­all sorts and conditions of caves—­caves studded all round with anemones, and caves bristling with tiny jewelled sponges.  Sark is just a honeycomb of caves.”