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Bucket had so far given few proofs of valour. Though he was the

first of the gentry to be freed from the stocks, and though he

had straightway found in the waggon his darling bucket, his

favourite blunderbuss, and with it a pouch of bullets, he did not

care to fight. He said that he did not trust himself when dry,

and so he went to a cask of spirits standing near, and, using his

hand as a spoon, dipped up a stream into his lips. Only when he

had well warmed and strengthened himself did he adjust his cap,

take up his bucket from his knees, ram home a charge, sprinkle

the pan, and gaze at the battlefield. He saw that a glittering

wave of bayonets was smiting and dispersing the gentry, and he

swam to meet that wave; he bent down and dived through the dense

grass, across the centre of the yard, until he paused in ambush

where the nettles were growing; with gestures he summoned

Buzzard.