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Of course when the others came up to roost they all came and squatted on Oswald’s bed and said how sorry they were. He waived their apologies with noble dignity, because there wasn’t much time, and said he had an idea that would knock the council’s plan into a cocked hat. But he would not tell them what it was. He made them wait till next morning. This was not sulks, but kind feeling. He wanted them to have something else to think of besides the way they hadn’t stood by him in the bursting of the secret staircase door and the tea-tray and the milk.

Next morning Oswald kindly explained, and asked who would volunteer for a forced march to Hazelbridge. The word volunteer cost the young Oswald a pang as soon as he had said it, but I hope he can bear pangs with any man living. “And mind,” he added, hiding the pang under a general-like severeness, “I won’t have any one in the expedition who has anything in his shoes except his feet.”

This could not have been put more delicately and decently. But Oswald is often misunderstood. Even Alice said it was unkind to throw the pease up at Denny. When this little unpleasantness had passed away (it took some time, because Daisy cried, and Dora said, “There now, Oswald!”) there were seven volunteers, which, with Oswald, made eight, and was, indeed, all of us. There were no cockle-shells, or tape-sandals, or staves, or scrips, or anything romantic and pious about the eight persons who set out for Hazelbridge that morning, more earnestly wishful to be good and deedful–at least Oswald, I know was–than ever they had been in the days of the beastly Wouldbegood Society. It was a fine day. Either it was fine nearly all last summer, which is how Oswald remembers it, or else nearly all the interesting things we did came on fine days.

With hearts light and gay, and no pease in any one’s shoes, the walk to Hazelbridge was perseveringly conducted. We took our lunch with us, and the dear dogs. Afterwards we wished for a time that we had left one of them at home. But they did so want to come, all of them, and Hazelbridge is not nearly as far as Canterbury, really, so even Martha was allowed to put on her things–I mean her collar–and come with us. She walks slowly, but we had the day before us, so there was no extra hurry.

At Hazelbridge we went into B. Munn’s grocer’s shop and asked for ginger-beer to drink. They gave it us, but they seemed surprised at us wanting to drink it there, and the glass was warm–it had just been washed. We only did it, really, so as to get into conversation with B. Munn, grocer, and extract information without rousing suspicion. You cannot be too careful.

However, when we had said it was first-class ginger-beer, and paid for it, we found it not so easy to extract anything more from B. Munn, grocer; and there was an anxious silence while he fiddled about behind the counter among the tinned meats and sauce bottles, with a fringe of hob-nailed boots hanging over his head.

H. O. spoke suddenly. He is like the sort of person who rushes in where angels fear to tread, as Denny says (say what sort of person that is). He said:

“I say, you remember driving us home that day. Who paid for the cart?”

Of course B. Munn, grocer, was not such a nincompoop (I like that word, it means so many people I know) as to say right off. He said:

“I was paid all right, young gentleman. Don’t you terrify yourself.”

People in Kent say terrify when they mean worry.

So Dora shoved in a gentle oar. She said:

“We want to know the kind lady’s name and address, so that we can write and thank her for being so jolly that day.”