When William returned, all excitement was over and Uncle George was consuming roast beef with energy.

“Ah, William,” he said, “we must complete the History lesson soon.  Nothing like History.  Nothing like History.  Nothing like History.  Teaches us to endure the buffets of fate with equanimity and to smile at misfortune.  Then we must do some Geography.”  William groaned.  “Most fascinating study.  Rivers, mountains, cities, etc.  Most improving.  The morning should be devoted to intellectual work at your age, William, and the afternoon to the quiet pursuit of—­some improving hobby.  You would then find the true joy of life.”

To judge from William’s countenance he did not wholly agree, but he made no objection.  He had learnt that objection was useless, and against Uncle George’s eloquence silence was his only weapon.

After lunch Uncle George followed his usual custom and retired to rest.  William went to the shed in the back garden and continued the erection of a rabbit hutch that he had begun a few days before.  He hoped that if he made a hutch, Providence would supply a rabbit.  He whistled blithely as he knocked nails in at random.

“William, you mustn’t do that now.”

He turned a stern gaze upon his mother.

“Why not?” he said.

“Uncle George is resting.”

With a crushing glance at her he strolled away from the shed.  Someone had left the lawn mower in the middle of the lawn.  With one of his rare impulses of pure virtue he determined to be useful.  Also, he rather liked mowing the grass.

“William, don’t do that now,” called his sister from the window.  “Uncle George is resting.”

He deliberately drove the mowing machine into the middle of a garden bed and left it there.  He was beginning to feel desperate.  Then: 

“What can I do?” he said bitterly to Ethel, who was still at the window.

“You’d better find some quiet, improving hobby,” she said unkindly as she went away.

It is a proof of the utterly broken state of William’s spirit that he did actually begin to think of hobbies, but none of those that occurred to him interested him.  Stamp-collecting, pressed flowers, crest-collecting—­Ugh!

He set off down the road, his hands in his pockets and his brows drawn into a stern frown.  He amused himself by imagining Uncle George in various predicaments, lost on a desert island, captured by pirates, or carried off by an eagle.  Then something in the window of a house he passed caught his eye and he stopped suddenly.  It was a stuffed bird under a glass case.  Now that was something like a hobby, stuffing dead animals!  He wouldn’t mind having that for a hobby.  And it was quite quiet.  He could do it while Uncle George was resting.  And it must be quite easy.  The first thing to do of course was to find a dead animal.  Any old thing would do to begin on.  A dead cat or dog.