He felt rather bored and began to wonder whether it was lunch-time or not.

He then “scouted” the wood and by his wood lore traced three distinct savage tribes’ passage through the wood and found the tracks of several elephants.  He engaged in deadly warfare with about half-a-dozen lions, then tired of the sport.  It must be about lunch-time.  He could imagine Ethel, his sister, hunting for him wildly high and low with growing pangs of remorse.  She’d wish she’d made less fuss over that old scarf.  His mother would recall the scene over the pan and her heart would fail her.  His father would think with shame of his conduct in the matter of the bugle.

“Poor William!  How cruel we were!  How different we shall be if only he comes home ...!”

He could almost hear the words.  Perhaps his mother was weeping now.  His father—­wild-eyed and white-lipped—­was pacing his study, waiting for news, eager to atone for his unkindness to his missing son.  Perhaps he had the bugle on the table ready to give back to him.  Perhaps he’d even bought him a new one.

He imagined the scene of his return.  He would be nobly forgiving.  He would accept the gift of the new bugle without a word of reproach.  His heart thrilled at the thought of it.

He was getting jolly hungry.  It must be after lunch-time.  But it would spoil it all to go home too early.

Here he caught sight of a minute figure regarding him with a steady gaze and holding a paper bag in one hand.

William stared down at him.

“Wot you dressed up like that for?” said the apparition, with a touch of scorn in his voice.

William looked down at his sacred uniform and scowled.  “I’m a scout,” he said loftily.

“’Cout?” repeated the apparition, with an air of polite boredom.  “Wot’s your name?”

“William.”

“Mine’s Thomas.  Will you catch me a wopse?  Look at my wopses!”

He opened the bag slightly and William caught sight of a crowd of wasps buzzing about inside the bag.

“Want more,” demanded the infant.  “Want lots more.  Look.  Snells!”

He brought out a handful of snails from a miniature pocket, and put them on the ground.

“Watch ’em put their horns out!  Watch ’em walk.  Look!  They’re walkin’.  They’re walkin’.”

His voice was a scream of ecstasy.  He took them up and returned them to their pocket.  From another he drew out a wriggling mass.

“Wood-lice!” he explained, casually.  “Got worms in ’nother pocket.”

He returned the wood-lice to his pocket except one, which he held between a finger and thumb laid thoughtfully against his lip.  “Want wopses now.  You get ’em for me.”

William roused himself from his bewilderment.

“How—­how do you catch ’em?” he said.

“Wings,” replied Thomas.  “Get hold of their wings an’ they don’t sting.  Sometimes they do, though,” he added casually.  “Then your hands go big.”