'Not much!' said Beetle firmly. 'I'm not goin' to be done out of my fun for a lot of filthy butterflies.'
'Then you'll sweat horrid. You'd better carry my Jorrocks. 'Twon't make you any hotter.'
They all sweated; for Stalky led them at a smart trot west away along the cliffs under the furze-hills, crossing combe after gorsy combe. They took no heed to flying rabbits or fluttering fritillaries, and all that Turkey said of geology was utterly unquotable.
'Are we going to Clovelly?' he puffed at last, and they flung themselves down on the short, springy turf between the drone of the sea below and the light summer wind among the inland trees. They were looking into a combe half full of old, high furze in gay bloom that ran up to a fringe of brambles and a dense wood of mixed timber and hollies. It was as though one-half the combe were filled with golden fire to the cliff's edge. The side nearest to them was open grass, and fairly bristled with notice-boards.
'Fee-rocious old cove, this,' said Stalky, reading the nearest. '"Prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law. G. M. Dabney, Col, J.P.," an' all the rest of it. 'Don't seem to me that any chap in his senses would trespass here, does it?'
'You've got to prove damage 'fore you can prosecute for anything! 'Can't prosecute for trespass,' said M'Turk, whose father held many acres in Ireland. 'That's all rot!'
''Glad of that, 'cause this looks like what we wanted. Not straight across, Beetle, you blind
