We had our days of adventure, but they were natural accidents,
our own adventures. There was one hot day when several of us, walking
out towards Maidstone, were incited by the devil to despise ginger beer,
and we fuddled ourselves dreadfully with ale; and a time when our young
minds were infected to the pitch of buying pistols, by the legend of
the Wild West. Young Roots from Highbury came back with a revolver and
cartridges, and we went off six strong to live a free wild life one
holiday afternoon. We fired our first shot deep in the old flint mine at
Chiselstead, and nearly burst our ear drums; then we fired in a primrose
studded wood by Pickthorn Green, and I gave a false alarm of "keeper,"
and we fled in disorder for a mile. After which Roots suddenly shot at
a pheasant in the high road by Chiselstead, and then young Barker told
lies about the severity of the game laws and made Roots sore afraid, and
we hid the pistol in a dry ditch outside the school field. A day or so
after we got in again, and ignoring a certain fouling and rusting of the
barrel, tried for a rabbit at three hundred yards.
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