CHAPTER ONE.
ONE AFTERNOON.
"I say, don't, Green: let the poor things alone!" "You mind your own business.

Oh! bother the old thorns!" Brian Green snatched his hand out of the quickset hedge into which he had thrust it, to reach the rough outside of a nest built by a bird, evidently in the belief that the hawthorn leaves would hide it from sight, and while they were growing the thorns would protect it from mischievous hands.
But the leaves opened out slowly that cold spring, and a party of boys from Dr Dunham's school, the Friary, Broadhurst, Kent, was not long in spying out the unlucky parents' attempt at house-building and nursery.
Still, the thorns did their duty to some extent when Brian Green of the red head leaped across the big dry ditch, rudely crushing a great clump of primroses and forcing them down the slope, for when the freckled-faced lad thrust his hand in to grasp the nest a sharp prick made him withdraw it, while this action brought it in contact with a natural _chevaux de frise_, scarified the back, and made a long scratch on his thumb.
"I wish you'd keep your tongue inside your teeth, Nic Braydon!" cried the boy fiercely.

"You won't be happy till I've given you another licking.

Look here what you've made me do!" "I didn't make you do it," said the first speaker.

"Why don't you let the birds alone ?" "Because, if you please, Miss Braydon," said the bigger lad mincingly, "I'm not so good as you are.