As a reward for this renewed activity, they got some useful information from a Rooster who was standing at his front gate looking up and down the road, and wishing to heaven that somebody would come along for him to talk to.  They got, in fact, a good deal more information than they asked for, for the Rooster was one of those fine upstanding, bumptious skites who love to talk all day, in the heartiest manner, to total strangers while their wives do the washing.

“Singed possum,” he exclaimed, when they had put the usual question to him.  “Now, what an extraordinary thing that you should come along and ask me that question.  What an astounding and incredible thing that you should actually use the word `singed’ in connection with the word `possum.’  Though mind you, the word I had in my mind was not ‘singed,’ but `burning.’  And not `possum’ but `feathers.’  Now, I’ll tell you why.  Only this morning, as I was standing here, I said to myself “somebody’s been burning feathers.”  I called out at once to the wife—­fine woman, the wife, you’ll meet her presently—­“Have you been burning feathers?” “No” says she.  “Well,” said I, “If you haven’t been burning feathers, somebody else has.”  At the very moment that I’m repeating the word “feathers” and “burning” you come along and repeat the words “singed” and “possum.”  Instantly I call to mind that at the identical moment that I smelt something burning, I saw a possum passing this very gate, though whether he happened to be singed or not I didn’t inquire.”

“Which way did he go?” inquired Bill excitedly.

“Now, let me see,” said the Rooster.  “He went down the road, turned to the right, gave a jump and a howl, and set off in the direction of Watkin Wombat’s summer residence.”

“The very man we’re after,” shouted Bill, and bolted off down the road, followed by the others, without taking any notice of the Rooster’s request to wait a minute and be introduced to the wife.

“His wife may be all right,” said Bill as they ran, “but what I say is, blow meetin’ a bloomin’ old Rooster’s wife when you haven’t got a year to waste listenin’ to a bloomin’ old Rooster.”

They followed the Rooster’s directions with the utmost rapidity, and came to a large hollow tree with a door in the side and a noticeboard nailed up which said, “Watkin Wombat, Esq., Summer Residence.”

The door was locked, but it was clear that the puddin’-thieves were inside, because they heard the Possum say peevishly, “You’re eating too much, and here’s me, most severely singed, not getting sufficient,” and the Wombat was heard to say “What you want is soap,” but the Possum said angrily, “What I need is immense quantities of puddin’.”

The avengers drew aside to hold a consultation.

" What’s to be done?” said Bill. " It’s no use knockin’, because they’d look through the keyhole and refuse to come out, and, not bein’ burglars, we can’t bust the door in.  It seems to me that there’s nothin’ for it but to give way to despair.”