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RENEWING ACQUAINTANCE.
ELSPETH fully anticipated the honour of giving lunch to this strange artist, for whom Bill had borrowed the chair. It was a good step up to the public house by the church; and common sense told her that a shelter so near at hand, where he could rest and eat, would be a convenience not to be despised.
Accordingly, she laid forward with her work, in order to be ready to do the honours of a cold-meat spread any time after eleven o'clock, by which hour she counted he might reasonably be getting hungry. As fortune would have it, however, she was doomed to disappointment.
Setting out about half-past nine for a walk his grandsons, the Squire with Hal at his side, arrived at the stile beyond the Manor Farm, intending to proceed by way of the riverbank and the fields to the church, and thence to the gate of the wood, to see how Farmer Bluff's place of exile was progressing.
Will and Sigismund were quickly over; and whilst Hal and the old gentleman were following at leisure, on they ran as usual. They no sooner disappeared beyond the corner where the path curved round the orchard than they came racing back.
"Such an odd object!" cried Will, in his clear, sharp voice. "A man under a white canvas umbrella!"
"Like a missionary teaching the heathen," put in Sigismund; for the equinoctial sun was in one of its rare hot moods, and our artist had been glad to screen his eyes from its glare.
A few moments later, the Squire and Hal were in sight of him. Hal, as usual, was just ready with some question, when his grandfather uttered an exclamation of pleasure and surprise. At the same moment, a look of recognition passed over the artist's face, and he rose, respectfully doffing his hat.
"Why, Grantley!" exclaimed the old gentleman, hurrying forward with extended hand. "I little thought you were upon my domains."
"On Tommy Tinker's ground," put in, sotto voce, Will, who always had something mischievous at the tip of his tongue.
The artist replied that he himself had not been aware of it until, inquiring his way of a labouring man up by the church, he had learned the name of the place. "I intended doing myself the honour of calling on you later in the day," he added; "when the air becomes too chilly for work."
"By all means," said the Squire cordially. "I shall be delighted. I see you have already made acquaintance with my bailiff, or his housekeeper," added he, glancing at the chair.
Grantley acquiesced. "A decent, hospitable kind of body too," returned he; "offered to get me luncheon presently—which, by the way, I think will come acceptable before long; for I breakfasted at six, preparatory to my tramp over from the town; and I find your country air sharpening to the appetite."
"You will find my bailiff but indifferent company, I fear," said the Squire. "Farmer Bluff is all that his name implies; a gouty old sinner, too, who deserves every twinge in his joints as heartily as ever any one did. However, if he is expecting you, of course—"
"Oh! From what the good woman said," interrupted Grantley, "I am not to enjoy the honour of sitting down with Farmer Bluff. She spoke of her front kitchen."
"I suspected as much," rejoined the Squire. "Bluff was never noted for the virtue of hospitality, and never will be. This is simply a scheme of Dame Elspeth's to turn an honest half-crown. That being so, I propose that you come up to lunch with me at the Manor House; or if that will take you from your work too soon, go in and have a snack of bread and bacon in Elspeth's kitchen, and come on to dine with me at six."
This arrangement seemed best to suit Grantley, who was anxious to lose none of the short spring day. "It will make a pretty sketch," said he, "if I can do it justice; but I am expecting a lad back presently—the one who fetched out Dame Elspeth and the chair; a lively urchin, from the way in which he scrambled through the hedge there, rather than go round like ordinary folk to the front entrance."
"Well for him that the old farmer has his gout on, if he is familiar with the way through that hedge," observed the Squire. "But if Farmer Bluff suffers that way, his dog Blazer doesn't; and the dog isn't a whit more bland-tempered than his master."
"Oh, grandfather!" put in Hal, who was listening as usual, his keen eyes moving quickly from one to the other of the speakers. "Blazer is ever so much nicer than Grip. He's an honest old doggie."
"Perhaps Farmer Bluff might become an honest old bailiff in your hands, my boy," returned his grandfather, "if only his gout allowed him to live long enough to see you in power. This is Hal, the coming man," continued he to Grantley; "the eldest son of your old schoolfellow, who will be Squire in my stead one of these days, I hope."
Grantley said something pleasant in answer to this information; but Hal could not help feeling that he cast a pitying glance at his crutches and irons.
"I hope I shall be as good a Squire as you, grandfather," said he in a low voice.
"Aim at being better, my boy," returned his grandfather, laying a fond hand on his shoulder. "The higher our ideal, the higher we may hope to reach. Set before yourself not the Squire your old grandfather has been, but the Squire Christ Jesus would have been if He—the only perfect man—had been Lord of the Manor to the people here."
And somehow, with his grandfather's words, it came over the cripple boy, that with such an ideal before him, it would not so very much matter to his squireship if he could not follow the hounds or ride in the steeplechase.
Then they set forward, and presently they met Dick Crozier on his way back from witnessing Bill's encounter with the goose.
The Squire stopped.
"Well, Master Dick," said he, for he rarely forgot a name, "you're out early; and you haven't missed your way to-day."
Dick answered "No;" but coloured to the crown, for conscience reminded him that he had none the less been out of bounds.
The Squire, however, knowing nothing of his father's injunctions, misinterpreted the blush, judging him to be of a modest turn. Now the Squire liked a boy who wasn't "made of brass;" so he took Dick to his heart thenceforth.
"My grandsons will be pleased to show you the grounds at the Manor House any time you like to come up for a game," said he.
Dick thanked him.
"And if you're not too tired to turn back with us just now," continued the Squire, "we shall all be pleased to have your company."
So Dick, who had till one o'clock upon his hands, turned back towards the river with them, nothing loth to walk in such august society.
Meanwhile Bill, upon the riverbank, behind the willow clump, had just finished washing out his pockets, which he had wrung out as dry as he could before putting his jacket on again. This done, he turned to take a survey of the distant hostile squadron.
To his amazement and dismay, whom should he behold but Dick Crozier and the Squire's grandsons making straight for the very spot where he had given the goose that vicious kick; and in their midst the brisk, trim figure of the Squire himself, one hand behind his back, as usual, the other grasping the gold head of his cane.
"Now, if he ha'n't been straight and split on me!" exclaimed Bill to himself. "There's a mess!"
This was precisely what Dick—being somewhat in the same mess—had not done, and had no intention of doing. The history of the affair was this.
Turning to the left, along the riverbank, to gain the cottages by the gate of the wood, the Squire and his grandsons had come upon the extraordinary spectacle of a flock of some ten or a dozen geese huddled together in apparent agitation and concern at a distance of several yards from one member of their flock, who was writhing and flapping on the grass in evident distress and agony. Their conduct betrayed a curious mixture of fear and sympathy. Now and again, one or another would come out from among her fellows, and make a few steps forward with outstretched neck, whilst the rest of the flock chorused her with warning screams of "Ya-hi!—Ya-hi!" But having contemplated the poor sufferer for some seconds, the spectacle of a sister's sufferings evidently became too much for her feelings, and she waddled away again to seek support of the gander, who stood hindermost of all, utterly useless in such an emergency.
Hal's quick eyes had been the first to catch sight of her.
"She's dying, grandfather!" exclaimed he; and as his brothers rushed forward, he felt in all its keenness the privation of his crippled condition.
Dick was in no such hurry, for he guessed pretty accurately what was the matter with the goose; though whether Bill's boot had broken her breast-bone or bruised her internal organs, he could not tell; so he followed on with Hal and his grandfather.
The Squire looked on for some minutes with both perplexity and concern at the poor creature's distress, then he turned to Hal and Sigismund.
"Run to Farmer Bluff's, both of you," said he. "Bring one of the men. The poor thing must be attended to at once."
Off ran Will and Sigismund at the top of their speed, whilst the other three looked on, not knowing what to do.
And in the distance stood Bill, watching them, and wondering what would come of it all. At length, recollecting his appointment with the artist, and concluding that it would be safer not to venture back to Farmer Bluff's field by that path, Bill set off running in the opposite direction, intending to go round the longer way by which Dick had met him when they quarreled about the broken egg.
All this while, Dick was in a sad dilemma, for he dared not tell what he knew, although he could so easily have put them on the right track with regard to the poor bird's sufferings.
At length, two of the farm labourers arrived, and after a short examination, amid much cackling and screaming from the rest of the flock, they carried off the injured goose in a basket they had brought for the purpose, to doctor her after their simple light; or, as a last, humane measure, to put a quick end to her struggles.
"For it's my opinion, sir," said one of the men wisely, as they placed her in the basket, "that her 'll not get over this. I've seen 'em took like this before; and they never live."
"Then kill her mercifully, by all means," the Squire answered him; "and end her sufferings."
And they continued on their way.
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THE INQUEST.
"THAT'S two geese lost this spring," observed one of the men next morning, as the injured bird breathed her last under his hand. "Warn't the governor mad!"
And so he was. He cursed, he swore, he raged; he would have stamped, had not his infirmity prevented it. Above all, he felt deeply injured that his gout prevented him from going out to see after things himself; for when he used to be about, such casualties never happened. Being tied to his chair, however, and having now one hand bad, in addition to his feet, he could use nothing more violent than his tongue.
And at length, the men, having listened as long as they thought necessary, to his stream of abuse, carried out the goose to execute their mournful duty.
Left to himself, Farmer Bluff gradually cooled down; and as he cooled, certain words of Hal's came back to mind. This gout, Hal had said, was of his own seeking. If so, it was his own fault that he had lost the geese. Farmer Bluff instinctively reached out his sound hand for the silver mug, and having drained it of its contents, fell into a brown study.
In the midst of his reflections, he heard a sudden tap against the window at his back, and looking round, he saw Hal's face pressed against the glass. The boy nodded; so did the bailiff—in spite of his grumps; and Hal swung himself off to ring at the bell, sitting down in the porch to wait.
Elspeth was more astonished than ever, on taking her usual peep through the slit window.
"Well! If you ain't layin' yourself open to hear a lot of language that ain't fit for the ears of the likes o' you!" exclaimed she, as she opened the door. "The master's that mad about the goose, that he's done nothing but swear ever since they brought her in."
Hal was already on his feet—or rather, his crutches.
"Never mind," said he. "It won't hurt me if he swears ever so. It's not what goes in at your ears that defiles you, you know, but what comes out of your mouth; because that shows what's in your heart."
So Hal went in, and was announced as before—"The young Squire, sir!"
Farmer Bluff was looking towards the door in expectation. His features relaxed on sight of the boy's cheery face.
Hal wished him "good morning."
"Left hand," said he, as his young master swung himself across to shake hands. The right arm was suspended from his neck in a large checked handkerchief.
Hal looked serious. "Is that gout too, Mr. Bluff?" asked he, standing in front of him, and eyeing the bandaged arm.
Farmer Bluff nodded.
"Ah! Young master," said he; "you didn't know what a plaguesome thing it was, once it got hold of your system; did you now? It couldn't be satisfied with getting me off my legs, but it must disable my knife-hand. It'll have the fork one next, I'll be bound; and then there 'll be a pair of 'em. A quadruped of gout!"
He looked rather proud over this joke. It wasn't many he made when he had gout.
But Hal stood silent.
"I'm disappointed," said he. "I expected to find you better; and instead of that, you're worse." And he went and sat down on a chair opposite—the same one he had occupied on his first visit—looking perplexed and grieved. Presently he said,—"It's that mug, Mr. Bluff. I'm sure of that. Have you thought about it any more?"
"Why, no," returned the bailiff; "not much. I can't say I have. I've thought more about the goose, a long chalk."
"Yes; that was a pity," said Hal sympathetically. "I was very sorry for the poor thing."
"Two broods lost in one year," said Farmer Bluff, getting on his moody expression again. "More than a man like me can afford to lose. Now, if I'd been about—"
"There you are again," put in Hal. "If you will have gout—"
"It's all those men," continued the old fellow wrathfully. "They're so—" Farmer Bluff pulled up suddenly, before he added "careless." He was going to throw in one of his swearing expressions, to give weight to the word; but he fortunately recollected Hal in time, and checked himself.
"Did they find out what she died of?" asked Hal.
"Of a knife in her throat, of course," laughed the old bailiff grimly.
"But what was the matter first, I mean," explained Hal.
Farmer Bluff shook his head. "They brought her in to me," said he; "and I couldn't see, except that she was dying pretty fast. So I told 'em to put an end to it."
"You'll have an inquest, won't you?" said Hal presently.
Farmer Bluff laughed outright. "An inquest on a goose!" roared he. "Upon my soul, young master, you're an original; though, when you come to look at it, half the inquests are on geese. He! he!—" And he laughed again at his own wit.
But Hal was quite in earnest. To him there was nothing funny in it at all. "There always is a post-mortem," said he seriously, "when anybody dies without the doctor being able to tell the cause of death. I think that if I were you, I should like to know why that goose died. It might enable you to prevent any more of them dying the same way, you know. Perhaps it was something in the food."
Farmer Bluff shook his head. "I daresay it's been 'post-mortemed' for somebody's dinner by now," said he, with grim humour. "I told 'em to cut her throat and put her underground; but such as them don't often get the chance to taste goose flesh. I'll be bound she's twirling on the spit by now."
After a little more talk, Hal took his crutches. "Well," said he, "I must wish you 'good morning,' Mr. Bluff; and as you've got the gout in your right arm I won't trouble you to shake hands. But I'd have it out of there, if I were you, feet and all. You really must think about that mug this time; now, won't you? I'm certain it's the mug that does the mischief; because, you see, you're proud of it, and directly we're proud of anything, we forget all the rest. But you won't have a goose to put it out of your head this time?"
Farmer Bluff replied that he "hoped to goodness not."
And Hal let himself out.
That evening at dinner,—for the boys always enjoyed the privilege of dining with their grandfather in the holidays,—the subject of the goose came up, and Hal told what he knew of its fate.
"Upon my word," remarked the Squire, after hearing how Hal had aired his ideas about the post-mortem, "you were right too; and if I had known it, the bird should not have been put out of the way in that slip-shod fashion. As it is, the thing shall be looked into."
"Your bailiff is guilty of allowing the consumption of unwholesome food," observed young Grantley, who had had accepted the Squire's pressing invitation to make the Manor House his home whilst his pencil was busy in the neighbourhood. "It is to be hoped the 'fortunate' family will reap no disastrous effects."
"Such a thing might have very serious consequences," added Hal's mother, who was very much concerned.
Finally, after due deliberation, the Squire gave orders that some one should at once be sent to ascertain the name of the man to whom the fate of the goose had been intrusted; and that having done this, the messenger should at once proceed to the man's cottage, and learn what had become of the stricken bird's remains.
It was quite late in the evening when at length a servant came to say that Hobbs—the man who had gone—was waiting in the hall.
The boys' bedtime was already long past, but they had begged to sit up a little longer, and they now all followed their grandfather out to hear the result of the investigations.
Hobb's account, however, although it quieted all anxiety with regard to the meal afforded to the Grig family, only involved in further mystery the cause of the goose's death.
Mrs. Grig, on being questioned, had reported that when plucking it ready for trussing, she had discovered a great black bruise upon its breast, and that upon further examination she had found the breast-bone to be broken. As to the wholesomeness of the flesh, however, she was ready to affirm before anybody that a sweeter bird never came from the poulterer's,—although "it wasn't quite in prime condition, not being in the fatting season." She had finished up by giving it as her opinion that there was no doubt about death having been due to accident rather than disease.
"There was one item rayther cur'ous 'bout the information as I got, sir," said Hobbs finally. "When old Jaggers went home to he's breakfast at the stroke of eight that morning, there was three eggs in the old white goose's nest, and two in the speckled's, as stood nighest it. But when he comed back, blest if there hadn't out o' each nest disappeared one egg; so's to leave no more'n two in one, and one in t'other," repeated Hobbs, looking round about upon his hearers to make sure they followed him. "And depend upon it, that old white goose had had a fight wi' some un as came to steal her egg. Though how the crittur dragged herself right away down to the river, wi' that broken bone, is past all understanding—except that sittin' birds 'll do 'most anything."
"What about the dog Blazer too?" exclaimed young Grantley, who had followed out to hear the news. "Why! That was the first morning I was there sketching. They said the dog was loose too."
"Who said so?" asked the Squire sharply.
"The boy who fetched my chair. And, by the by," exclaimed young Grantley suddenly, "I have it all! That young rascal was down there hiding in the ditch when first I came along; and he got in through hedge in quite a practised fashion."
"Ha!" exclaimed the Squire. "But he didn't bring your chair that way?"
"No; he just used that as a pretext for getting through, and came back with a black eye and a tale about the dog being off the chain; and, having crammed me with that, he offered to go round to the front—"
"Where Blazer could have got at him just the same, if he had really been loose," put in Hal.
"Now that I remember," added Grantley, "when I first came up and caught him in the ditch, he invented a history about rats, for which he professed to get so much a head. He said they stole the eggs; but I guess the young scapegrace himself was the biggest rat of the lot, and had his eye upon the biggest eggs. I should hardly think that rats would tackle a goose's egg."
"There's not a doubt about it but you've found the clue," returned the Squire. "The question to be answered is, Who was the boy?"
Young Grantley shook his head.
"But you put him in your picture, didn't you?" suggested Hal.
The Squire smiled. "Hal thoroughly believes in your power of faithful portraiture," observed he.
Young Grantley laughed. "Yes," said he; "I put him in. I told him to return in an hour or two. He was nearer three. He said he had been home."
"Which way did he go?" asked Hal.
"Towards the riverbank," was the reply; "but then we haven't yet decided who he was. My easel, Squire," he added, "is in Elspeth's charge. I'll run down and fetch the canvas if you like."
"No, no; not the least hurry," returned the Squire; "the morning will do just as well. We will sleep upon the information that you've given us."
The boys begged hard to be allowed to escort young Grantley to the farm at once; but it was getting very late, and their grandfather would not entertain the idea.
"Dame Elspeth wouldn't thank us for curtailing her hours of rest," said he. "She is up betimes, no doubt. To bed, now; and directly after breakfast to-morrow, we will start, and identify the thief."
Finding that there was no appeal, the boys gave in. Will and Sigismund went off to bed in high spirits at the idea of dragging a culprit to justice by means of an artist's sketch; but Hal lingered behind, a minute.
"Grandfather," said he, "what will be done with the boy? Will he go to prison, or what?"
"That depends," replied the Squire. "According to the old proverb, we must catch him first before we cook him. He certainly shall not be let off punishment if we do; you need not fear."
"I meant," replied Hal, "that I don't want him punished. I should fancy that it would harden a boy. I would rather have him talked to."
"Be sure he would remember a good smarting far longer," rejoined his grandfather; "and I should feel myself to blame if I neglected to let him feel the consequence of his bad conduct. Such small beginnings are as the seed-corn in the earth, which bringeth forth some thirtyfold, some sixtyfold, and some an hundredfold. That is equally true of bad, as of good seed. But now be off."
That night Hal went to bed with two sinners on his mind,—Farmer Bluff, with his silver mug and his gout, and the youthful but unknown villain who had murdered the old white goose and robbed her nest.
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AN ARTIST-DETECTIVE.
THE family assembled with great punctuality at the breakfast-table next morning. Will and Sigismund crowded round young Grantley, who had acquired great importance in their eyes, since he had assumed his novel rôle of detective. Hal, on the contrary, looked rather serious, wondering who the culprit would turn out to be, and what punishment he would have to undergo.
Immediately breakfast was over, the Squire rose and took his gold-headed cane. Young Grantley and the boys followed him out on to the verandah, Hal's mother accompanying them, to shade her eyes with her hand and watch them off, as Dick had seen her do on the first occasion of his peeping over the plantation palings at the Manor House.
Outside the lodge they chanced upon Dick, who had been down to the railway with his father. The squire gave him a benevolent salute, and the boys stopped to speak.
"We can't stay though," said Sigismund. "Turn back with us."
So Dick turned back.
"We're off to the Manor Farm," explained Will. And he went on to give the details of the theft, and how suspicion had come to rest upon the boy whom Mr. Grantley had put in his sketch of the church, but whose name was of course unknown to him. "We're going to identify him by the sketch," added he.
"Mr. Grantley leaves his easel at the farm," put in Sigismund. "I think it's splendid fun. It's exactly like a real police case, isn't it?"
Dick's face had become nearly as serious as Hal's at this intelligence. If the theft should be brought home to Bill, his own share in the affair was certain to come out, and then it would be all up with his pleasant footing at the Manor House.
"Whoever it was, pretty nearly killed the goose," added Will.
And between them, they narrated the events of the preceding evening, and how the Grig family had feasted on the poor goose's remains.
This was getting hotter and hotter for Dick. At length, he grew so uncomfortable that on reaching the gate of the farm, he said he would go no farther and in spite of all their pressing that he should wait outside and see the picture when Mr. Grantley brought it out, he turned, and left them to go in alone.
They had no sooner knocked at the kitchen door, however, than Dick changed his mind, and followed on towards the cottages beyond the farm. If Bill were anywhere about, he might give him a hint to keep out of the way a bit, until the storm blew over.
Dick's chief motive in this design was to avoid getting his character blackened in the Squire's eyes by association with Bill. He overlooked the more important consideration that he who meddles with mire is blackened, whether other people know it or not; and that there is One, before whose piercing gaze no hiding can avail, since He "looketh on the heart."
As it happened, Bill was just outside, off for a stroll. Seeing Dick, he turned the other way; but Dick ran after him.
"I say," cried he, "you're in for a pretty row. It's all come out about the goose and those two eggs you stole."
"I daresay!" flung out Bill. "Of course you've been and told."
"Of course I haven't," answered Dick. "The gentleman that put you in his picture smelt it out; and the Squire's gone up with him to the farm, to see the picture and identify your phiz."
This information was so startling that poor Bill's hair positively stood on end.
"It's only to be hoped he hasn't drawn you well," continued Dick; "but somehow these things always do come out. It's what they call the law of justice I expect. If I were you, I guess I'd hide away a bit. You see, you don't exactly know what they may do. You wouldn't get less than a month, you may make pretty sure, with the Squire after you, and Farmer Bluff behind, to back him up."
"But where am I to go?" asked Bill, so seriously that Dick perceived at once how terrified he was.
"Why, right away somewhere," said he, determined upon striking whilst the iron of Bill's fear was hot. "If I were in your shoes, I wouldn't even stay to think. I'd set off this very minute, and I'd go on running till I dropped. I'd walk till night. I'd do anything, short of jumping into the river, to escape a month in gaol. I saw inside a cell once," continued Dick impressively.
And then he shook his head with such effect that Bill looked round, almost expecting that his gaolers were at hand. As nothing was to be seen of them, however, Bill began to examine the matter more closely.
"How can I get food to eat, if I run away?" said he.
"Work for it, of course," returned Dick contemptuously. "A boy your size must be a donkey if he can't pick up enough to buy his victuals. You mightn't get much else but bread; but if you come to think, you'd get no more than that in gaol."
And it struck Bill that bread and water, with liberty, would be sweeter far than the daintiest fare in a prison cell.
"You'd have your hair cropped too," urged Dick; "and all the boys would pelt you, and call names, when you came out again."
"I should have nowhere to sleep," said Bill, still hesitating.
"Oh! You could get a lodging cheap enough," said Dick; "and anyhow—I'll tell you what. If don't make your mind up pretty quick, you'll have 'em down on you. The Squire's sure to recognise your picture; and he'll come right straight off here. If I were you, I'd go inside and grab whatever I could find to stuff my pockets with, and then I'd be off like a shot. I wouldn't stand stock-still and let 'em put the handcuffs on; not I!"
Bill turned. His mother had gone out, and he could take just what he liked.
"Look here," said Dick, with a sudden show of generosity, "I'll start you with that sixpence I was to give you for the egg; and then, you mind!—You've never got to say a word about my name, d'ye hear?"
And Bill, convinced that he had better escape, and glad to get so much to start him on his wanderings, promised, and ran indoors. A minute later, he reappeared, his jacket-tails stuffed out to twice their size, and in his hand a huge hunch of bread, which he was cramming down his throat as fast as he could swallow.
"I'm off!" said he; and away he ran along the road.
"Good luck to you!" cried Dick. And having watched him out of sight, he clambered over the gate of a field just opposite the cottages, and hid behind the hedge, to wait and see what would happen.
Meanwhile, Elspeth had been astonished beyond measure at the formidable party that besieged her kitchen door. In the first place, she was not accustomed to let the Squire in that way; and in the second, she caught up at once, from odd remarks, that something was amiss; so having brought the easel out from its place behind the churn, she retired to a respectful distance to listen and pick up what hints she could.
The Squire was the first to look. He examined the canvas closely for an instant; then he said,—"Now, boys; let each one take a look; then tell me who this is. To my mind, there's no doubt."
"Why, Bill the Kicker!" sang out all three with one voice.
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"And so say I," confirmed the Squire.
"It's splendid!" added Will.
"The rascal!" said the Squire. "He shall smart for it."
Elspeth came a step or two towards the group.
"Would it be the lad that fetched the chair?" asked she.
"The same," nodded young Grantley. "Will you like to look?"
And he politely turned the canvas towards her, whilst the boys made way.
"That was Bill Mumby—Bill the Kicker, as they call him," said Elspeth as she approached. "And so is this," she added, the instant she was near enough to see. "You've drawed him very true, sir, too."
"Then there remains no doubt," returned the Squire, summing up the evidence, and tapping briskly on the red-brick floor with his gold-headed cane. "We know whose door the mischief lies at now. The portrait does you credit, Grantley. You'll be a great man yet."
"Of whom it will be told in after days," said Grantley, not displeased, "that his first hit was made as a detective in the case of a country bumpkin versus a goose. Ah! Well, it remains to be seen whether or not it will be counted worthy of a place in the Academy."
"It shall certainly have a place in the Manor House," returned the Squire warmly, "if you will name your price."
So the picture found a purchaser before it was completed; and the young artist went out to his work well pleased.
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BILL'S FUTURE.
HALF an hour later, the Squire stood before the door of Bill the Kicker's home.
Dick, from his hiding-place behind the hedge, saw him arrive, striking the ground importantly with his cane, and followed by his grandsons.
"Now for it!" thought Dick, and rubbed his hands in glee.
The Squire knocked; but no one answered, so he knocked again. Still no one came.
"Go round to the back," said he to Will.
Will went, and returned with the news that he had tried the wash-house door and found it fast, but through the window he could see a little fire in the grate.
"We'll knock once more," said the Squire.
This time the upper window of the next door cottage opened, and a head was hastily thrust out. "Mrs. Mumby a'n't at home," the neighbour called. Then, seeing who was waiting down below, she humbly begged pardon, and further informed the Squire that Mrs. Mumby had gone up the road to carry home some linen.
The Squire thanked her with his customary courtesy; and having hoped the children were quite well, was going down the pathway, when the good woman called again to say that Mrs. Mumby was in sight.
When she arrived, her honest face was red with toiling through the sun; and it went redder when she saw the Squire at her door. But Mrs. Mumby knew her manners, so she asked him with a curtsey if he wouldn't step inside; and there she dusted chairs for him and the three young gentlemen, and stood up, with a corner of her apron in her hand, to hear what he had come about.
"It's about your boy, Mrs. Mumby," began the Squire, when he had said a pleasant thing or two about the weather and her health. "He isn't in just now, I believe."
"No, sir," said the mother; "he isn't in just now."
"And you couldn't say exactly where he is?"
"I couldn't, sir," said she.
"Can you tell me where he was all the morning, two days ago?" the Squire asked.
"Two days ago?" reflected Mrs. Mumby. "Yes, sir; I believe I can. We did some mangling early, him and me, afore his father comed in to he's breakfast; and Bill went out to take it home. All the morning arter that, sir, he was in the field just by the farm, along o' some strange gent as took a fancy to the looks of him, and wanted for to put him in a pictur' of the church. A pretty bit it is, too, sir. I've often noticed it agoin' 'crost the fields on summer evenings, when the bells was ringing out for service, sir."
"Well, Mrs. Mumby," said the Squire, anxious to recall her to the point.
"Yes, sir; as I was a-saying," continued Bill's mother, "and I wanted him so bad that day to turn the mangle and carry linen home; but of course I naturally thinks, thinks I, 'he'll sure to give him something for his time.' But it's like such folks, sir; ne'er a copper did my Bill get out of him. Come home empty-handed, sir; that he did! And me near dragged to death."
"Did he though!" returned the Squire. "I've heard a different tale to that. The gentleman—a friend of mine, now staying at the Manor House—informs me that he gave the boy a silver sixpence for his time. Now what say you to that?"
"That I'm sorry I should have to tell it of my own, sir," answered Mrs. Mumby, looking down; "but I'm bound to own as Bill is often caught out in untruths. It a'n't for want of bringing up. His father never catches him but what he gets the strap; and so he shall this time, sir, that he shall. His father 'll be right mad to hear of it."
"But that is not all, I'm grieved to say," pursued the Squire, going on to tell her the rest of his charges against her rapscallion son.
Mrs. Mumby's face fell lower and lower.
"It's not for want o' being strict with him," repeated she. "Mumby and me, we're always at him, sir; and, as I say, his father never finds him out but what he straps him well."
But the Squire shook his head. "It isn't strapping that 'll make a boy right-minded," answered he, "any more than cutting back will make a wild plum bear a garden fruit."
"Then what's to do, sir?" said the mother ruefully. "Don't the good book tell us, 'Spare the rod, and spoil the child'?"
"But it also tells us," said the Squire, "that the evil deeds men do proceed out of their evil hearts; and that nothing can effect a change save the Holy Spirit of God, that 'bloweth where it listed' in this world of sin."
Mrs. Mumby was silent. She knew her Bible pretty well, as she had heard the parson read it from the desk; but she had hitherto thought only of the parent's duty of bringing up a child in the way he should go.
This idea that her boy Bill needed a changed heart to make him want less strapping, was new to her. It had never struck her that "bringing up" is only like preparing the heart—as ploughing does the field—and breaking up its hard surface to receive the gospel seed of truth.
"What would you wish us to do, sir?" asked she nervously.
"First of all, to bring the young culprit face to face with me," replied the Squire. "I will question him, and see what argument can do; and if I find him obdurate—well, I shall see what steps to take. There is no doubt about the truth of what the 'wise man' says; and there are many 'rods' that can be used to teach the wholesome lesson how that crooked ways are sure to find their chastisement."
"He'll be in by one, sir, sure," said Mrs. Mumby, half-doubtful whether to be glad or sorry that the Squire agreed with her about the need of punishment. "He never lags behind at dinner-time."
"Then bring him round to me," rejoined the Squire, rising to his feet.
The mother dropped a curtsey.
"But you won't be hard on him, sir?" said she timidly.
The Squire struck his cane upon the ground.
"We have his future to consider, Mrs. Mumby," answered he. "A boy who lies and thieves at his age, must be curbed, or he will end by worse. But we will hope that, by God's grace, we may turn him from his evil ways."
The Squire and his grandsons were no sooner fairly out of sight than Dick came out of hiding, and set off home.
"Bill's well out of that," said he to himself as he thrust his hands down in his trousers pockets, and set up whistling. Then, recollecting the price he had paid to get Bill off, he broke off his tune to add—"And I'm well rid of him." And for all the scarcity of sixpences with Dick, he even went so far as to count himself cheaply rid of Bill. "I wouldn't care to have the Squire looking after my future," said Dick.
Meantime, young Grantley's brushes worked busily at the picture of the church, whilst the Squire and his grandsons made their way across the fields and by the river to the wood; and having ascertained that the repairs were progressing satisfactorily, they returned to lunch.
Then the Squire sat down in his study to await the arrival of Mrs. Mumby and her scapegrace son; and the boys went out of doors to play about the plantation, taking care to keep well within sight of the gate, so that they might see when Bill arrived. But the afternoon wore on. Mumby came in to his dinner, and went back to work; and his wife put aside the plateful she had reserved for Bill. Then she went upstairs and cleaned herself against his coming in, so as to be ready to go up to the Manor House with him.
"I durstn't breathe a word of it till I've got my bonnet on," said she, "else he'd be off like a shot."
But Mrs. Mumby tidied up, and came downstairs again with her best bonnet in her hand; and still she found the plate untouched. And all the afternoon she worked away at her shirt-fronts; but still no Bill came in.
Presently she made the tea, and had a cup, setting the pot to keep warm on the hob. And six o'clock brought Mumby home; but still no Bill.
"It's just like he's got scent of it," said she. "A boy like him won't stand to be corrected while he got legs to run away."
Up at the Manor House they were so less perplexed.
Young Grantley had stowed his easel at the farm, and hurried in to dinner, all anxiety to hear what had been done. But all the Squire could tell him, was that neither Mrs. Mumby nor the boy had been.
"It's my opinion, grandfather," said Will, "that Mrs. Mumby has changed her mind. She's like a silly mother; doesn't want him punished. That's the fact of it."
"You oughtn't to have spoken out so plain," said Sigismund. "You've frightened her. You take my word; she's hiding Bill."
In this conviction, they all retired for the night.
Next morning, just as breakfast was concluded, a servant came to say that, "Mrs. Mumby, from the cottages beyond the Manor Farm," was waiting in the hall.
Mrs. Mumby's face was drowned in tears.
"Bill's gone and drowned hisself, or run away," she sobbed. "He knew he'd catch it extra hard; and I shall never see my boy again—my only boy."
"My good woman," said the Squire soothingly, "you may be quite sure your boy has too much respect for his own life, to do anything so foolish as jump into the river. Far more likely he is hiding somewhere near about, until the storm is past; so dry your eyes, and tell me what you can."
Mrs. Mumby obeyed.
"He's took a lot o' food out o' the cupboard," said she, choking down her sobs, and speaking through her apron. "Pretty nigh a half a quartern loaf, he did. I always have 'em in a day before, to get 'em stale."
"Proof positive," said Will, "he's run away."
"What should he want with bread in the river, I wonder!" giggled Sigismund, snacking at the flies with a bit of whip-cord, and half thinking of Bill the whole time.
"He may have gone into the woods," observed the Squire, half to himself.
"Picnicking," put in Will.
"Has any search been made?" continued his grandfather aloud to Mrs. Mumby.
The mother answered tearfully that all the neighbours had turned out with lanterns after dark, on hearing that the boy had not come home; and many people in the village street had joined the search. Every outhouse and haystack in the neighbourhood had been ransacked; and many of the searchers had not given up till dawn.
"They reckoned, you see, sir, that he was bound to drop asleep somewheres, if so be he was alive," explained Mrs. Mumby; "and they'd liker hit upon him in the dark than by broad daylight, when he'd be upon the tramp."
"It looked remarkably as if he had made off," the Squire thought. "Well, well," said he, "the way will be to telegraph the fact to Scotland Yard. A thorough search will soon be set on foot." So, repairing to the study, a description of the runaway was written out, and a man on horseback forthwith despatched with it to the town.
Whilst this was being arranged, Hal had slipped round to Mrs. Mumby's side. "I think, you know," said he, "if I could get hold of Bill, and talk to him, it might do good; but then, you see, you don't know where he is."
The mother shook her head. "I wish I did," said she.
"I wish you did," echoed Hal. "When you don't know where a person is, it makes you feel so bad. You see, he'll soon eat up that bread. It wouldn't last me long; and everybody says I eat so little, for a growing boy."
"And he eats such a lot," rejoined Bill's mother, comforted by the interest Hal seemed to take in her boy's fate. "Bless you, sir! You need to be poor people, like Mumby and me," she added, "to know how much he does eat."
"And the question is," said Hal reflectively, "what will he do when that's gone?"
Dick also had heard of the great stir caused by Bill's disappearance.
"There was pretty near a score on us," old Kirkin told him when he ran down the garden, early that morning. "We didn't put our lanterns out till four; and up again at six. I can tell 'ee, I ha'n't had a wink o' sleep."
"I wonder you didn't stay in bed to-day," said Dick.
But Kirkin shook his head. He had been a gardener in his prime, but now had to get his living by odd jobs as best he could.
"Sleep or no sleep, can't afford to throw up work," said he. "But when a lad's missing, so that no one knows what's come of him, a man can't stay in bed to sleep. His mother's like to kill herself."
"I wonder where he's gone," said Dick, which was quite true, so far as it went. Nevertheless, he felt very uncomfortable, sitting down to breakfast with the secret of Bill's disappearance on his mind.