the roof and walked down the schoolroom chimney.
There, on the schoolroom floor, lay half a Professor of Magic, struggling feebly, and uttering sad, faint squeals.
“What are we to do now?” said Denis.
“Steal apples,” said the half-Professor in a weak whisper. “Do let my legs out. Slice up the Great Bear—or the Milky Way would be a good one for them to come out by.”
But Denis knew better.
“Not till we get the lost Princesses,” said he, “now, what’s to be done?”
“Steal apples I tell you,” said the half-Professor, crossly; “seven apples—there—seven kisses. Cut them down. Oh go along with you, do. Leave me to die, you heartless boy. I’ve got pins and needles in my legs.”
Then off ran Denis to the Seven Acre Orchard at the top of Clover Hill, and there were the six Princes hanging to the apple-tree, and the hangman had gone home to his dinner, and there was no one else about. And the Princes were not dead.
Denis climbed up the tree and cut the Princes down with the penknife of the gardener’s boy. (You will often find this
