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"WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT."
BEING Easter holidays, and the tutor who superintended studies at the Manor House having gone North to visit his friends, Hal and his brothers had things pretty much their own way from sunrise to bedtime. They walked; they played games; they followed their grandfather about; they rode the donkey about the field—or rather Will and Sigismund did, whilst Hal looked on and clapped his hands.
In short, they did all that boys in holiday-time try to do; they took every possible means to make the best of their freedom. All things considered, too, they were very good to Hal, who—hard as he tried to keep up with them—was rather a clog with his crutches and his irons.
On the morning after the Squire's interview with his bailiff, however, Hal evolved a scheme which relieved them of this clog.
One of the men had let loose a ferret in the granary, to hunt the rats, which of late had been committing great depredations in the henhouses. For some time the boys had been too excited to notice their brother's sudden disappearance. But presently, the hunt drifted upstairs into the loft overhead. This at once recalled Hal to mind, because he could not very well climb a ladder without assistance.
"Where can he have got to?" exclaimed Sigismund, who had been outside to look about for him.
Somehow Sigismund, being of a more unselfish disposition, was always the one to wait behind for Hal.
"Gone indoors, I expect," returned Will, already half-way up.
Hal had a way of "going indoors" when he found the game beyond him. "It's no fun when you ache," he would say; "and it doesn't make you a bit worth playing with." And he would be found afterwards, deep in a book—not always a story-book either.
Meanwhile, Hal, having slipped out through the stable-yard and gained the road, was on his way to the Manor Farm, meditating on the unaccustomed rôle which he had taken on himself.
About the same time, Dick Crozier, intending to hang about the farm, on the chance of catching Bill and hearing something of the hornets' nest, had chosen that direction for his morning's stroll. Recognising the wooden tap-tap of Hal's crutches on the gravel as he hurried down the hill, Dick determined first to renew acquaintance with the Squire's grandson; so he slackened pace, and the boys met at the lodge gate.
Hal at once nodded pleasantly; and Dick, returning the nod, joined him without further ceremony.
"You get along jolly fast, considering," remarked Dick pleasantly, as the conversation turned on walking. "That's hard work, though, I should say."
Hal nodded, and went a little faster, breathing short with the effort.
"Was it an accident?" inquired Dick; "or were you born so?"
"It came on when I began to walk," answered Hal; "at least, so I'm told. Of course, I don't remember being any different."
He didn't seem to mind talking about it, which Dick thought very sensible. "Where would be the use of minding?" said he to himself. "It wouldn't alter the fact." He little knew the effort it cost Hal to put his injured pride on one side.
"What are the irons for?" asked Dick next.
"To stretch this leg," answered Hal, nodding to the right. "That one was the worst; and the sinews shrank—just like a wet string. It's pulled out tight all the while, to try and stretch it longer."
"Don't it make it ache?" asked Dick.
"Sometimes," assented Hal.
He might with truth have said, "most of the time;" but Hal was a bit of a hero in his way. "I'm used to it, you see," he added patiently.
"I shouldn't like to be like that," said Dick.
"Nobody would, of course," returned Hal; "but when you are, you've got to make the best of it. You think of all the great men you've ever read about, and wonder how they'd have borne it; and that helps you."
Dick was so much struck by this way of looking at a misfortune, that for several minutes he was silent; and Hal's crutches went on tapping out their melancholy tale upon the road; step by step, step by step, patiently—the only way to rise superior to a misfortune of that kind.
"Who is the greatest man you ever read about?" asked Dick presently.
Hal assumed a thoughtful air. "That's rather hard to say," answered he; "because some are great for one thing, some for another. It's like that with plants, too, you know. There's corn, and there are potatoes; and we couldn't very well do without either. I shouldn't like to do without apples, nor green peas—we always have them sooner than other people; (forced, you know;) and I'll ask grandfather to send you some. Then again," he ran on, before Dick had time to thank him for this promise, "there are flowers—more beautiful than useful, as we count use. It's just like that with men, I think."
Dick could not jump quite the length of this argument. He suggested Robinson Crusoe.
But Hal's estimate of greatness differed from Dick's. "Crusoe was pretty well in some things, considering how he began," said he. "He was shifty, but he wasn't all round; besides, he was an awful coward, and he swore. And then, he's only in a book. Now Socrates—only he was a heathen—he died bravely when they made him choose between the dagger and the poison cup. And Napoleon—he made himself a king out of a common soldier, and he must have been a great man, or people wouldn't have given in to him; but then he did it all for the sake of power, and he wasn't good.
"A man's motives go for a great deal, you know. Then there were the martyrs; I like them. They had their bodies broken on the wheel because they wouldn't tell lies. I often think of that, because it was something like having my leg stretched, only thousand times worse. There was Shakespeare too. He wrote very fine plays. That was more like being a flower, I should say; and I don't know that he was particularly good, or that he did anything else worth doing. And there was Sir Isaac Newton, who discovered why apples fall done instead of up. He was very learned, of course. But I like men such as Wilberforce and Clarkson, who did so much to abolish slavery; or Moffat, the missionary; or Howard, who went into a lot of gaols, and made a fuss about having them kept cleaner, and the prisoners better treated. In my opinion," added Hal, "they were some of the greatest men that ever lived—except Jesus Christ."
Dick had not read about any of these heroes. He said that he should like to.
"Of course," continued Hal; "none of them come near Jesus Christ. You don't expect that. There was Buddha. A missionary once told me about him; and I've read since. He was a prince in India; and he gave up everything to try and find out how to make people happier, because one day when he went outside the palace, he discovered that everybody wasn't so well off as himself, and that people had to be ill and die. But he didn't end up the same as Jesus Christ," Hal concluded. "And then it's such an immense while ago that I don't think it's very easy to be sure whether it's all true."
Hal was fond of books, and had an original way of talking about what he read.
"I don't suppose that any of them went on crutches," suggested Dick.
Hal thought not. "One of them was lame," said he. "His name was Epictetus; he was an eminent philosopher. It was through his master's cruelty; and that was very hard to bear. But crutches don't matter to some sorts of greatness," added he. "You wouldn't get along very well on crutches if you wanted to fight; and fighting isn't always wrong either, though I don't like it. Where you do it to put down injustice, for instance, or to help the weaker side, it's noble and right."
"Or if you do it to defend your wife and children," put in Dick.
"There were some great men deformed," continued Hal. "There was Pope. He had to be laced up in a pair of tight stays to keep him from doubling up; he used to sit up in bed and write poetry. I've read some of it, and it's very fine. 'Whatever is, is right,' comes from Pope; and though you can't say that of everything, there is a sense in which it is very true. But Pope wasn't brave always. He used to be very disagreeable to his servant when he was in pain; and I think if any one was really great, they would rise superior to affliction, and not make other people feel it. You see," added Hal, in a tone of reflection, "it's bad enough for one person to go on crutches, without making all the rest miserable."
"You mean to be great, I suppose," observed Dick admiringly. "What shall you be?"
Hal reflected. "That's difficult to say exactly," said he. "Of course I've got to be the Lord of the Manor."
"You have?" interrupted Dick. "I thought it was your tallest brother."
"Will?—No; it's always the eldest son. I'm the eldest," added Hal, just a trifle proudly.
Dick was astonished. He had made up his mind from the very first, that Hal was the youngest of the three.
"You see, I'm short," said Hal simply. "It makes you grow slowly when you're like this."
"That's a pity," said Dick, knowing of nothing better to say.
"Yes; I suppose it is," said Hal; "only—'Whatever is, is right,' unless, of course, it is something contrary to God's will; and this can't be, as I was born so. I mean all the same to be like my grandfather."
"He isn't very big," put in Dick, cheerfully.
"Some people," continued Hal, "don't think you can be a proper Squire unless you can ride in the steeplechase and follow the hounds. My grandfather doesn't now; but he used to formerly. I've heard him say what a pity it was that I couldn't learn to sit a horse. But you see it isn't just the same as it used to be in the olden times when there were serfs, and the lord of the manor lived in a castle with a moat and drawbridge. He had to be a sort of petty king in those days. And if other lords stole his vassals' sheep or wives, he had to rally all his men and besiege their castles. I'm afraid I shouldn't be very well able to do that. But all that is changed nowadays, and there are no serfs—which ought to make the poor people much better off. What a good Squire has to do is to pull down all the badly built cottages on his estate, and have them properly drained, and damp courses put in, so that the walls don't rot."
Dick inquired whether that was the reason why some cottages near his father's house were being pulled down.
Hal nodded. "Why," said he, "the jam actually mildewed in the parlour cupboard! Think of that I saw it. And the old lady's wedding-dress went all spotty where it hung in the press upstairs. It was silk; and she had worn it every Christmas Day and Easter Sunday since she was married, and every time any of her sons and daughters had a wedding. It was very vexatious for her. You couldn't let such a house stand."
Hal spoke with such earnestness that Dick was quite convinced, and immediately thought of the preservation of old silk wedding-dresses as one of the chief duties of a good Squire.
"There's to be a proper slate course at the bottom of the walls this time," added Hal. "You'll see it will be quite dry."
"Then there's the drainage," continued he; "because if that's bad, the wells get poisoned, and people have fevers. And although it doesn't say anything in the Bible actually about drainage, it says a great deal which seems to me to mean that if you own an estate, you ought to look after the health and comfort of the tenants. Oh, there's a lot a Squire has to do that I think I could do! And perhaps," he added thoughtfully, "I should do it all the better for not riding in the steeplechase and following the hounds. You can't do everything; and if you come to think," concluded Hal, "perhaps that is why God let me be like this; because, you know, He could have made it different if He had chosen to."
"A Squire has to make a speech at the rent dinner, doesn't he?" suggested Dick, glad to show that he had some knowledge of a Squire's duties.
"Oh! I think I could manage that all right," returned Hal, "when I got to be of age. It wouldn't be noticed that I was like this when I stood up behind the table; so I shouldn't feel bashful about it. Besides, I don't think I should mind when once I was Squire, because people would respect me; and I should try to show them how great men bear such things."
Dick thought this a very plucky way of looking forward to such a terrible ordeal.
"Another thing you have to do," said Hal, as they arrived at the gate of the Manor Farm, "is to see that the bailiff and other people about the estate do their duty. And if they don't—through drink or laziness, you know—you have to turn them out, and hire somebody who does. But I'm going in here," added he, breaking off abruptly.
Dick was sorry, for he found Hal's company both instructive and entertaining; moreover, his vanity was rather flattered by this acquaintance with the future Squire. But fortunately Hal appreciated a good listener.
"Where shall you be when I come out?" asked he, resting on his crutches to open the gate; "because I like somebody to talk to."
Dick, having nothing particular in view, readily promised to wait about until Hal came out; and having watched him past Grip—who only rose to his feet in a respectful sort of way, and walked quietly forward the length of his chain—he sauntered slowly on.
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THE YOUNG SQUIRE.
ON going, as usual, before answering the doorbell, to peep through the little window in the china closet, Elspeth was not a little surprised; for there, on the seat in the porch, his crutches on either side of him, sat the young Squire, resting.
He was examining a leaf-bud on a tendril of the honeysuckle when she first caught sight of him; but directly the door opened, he got to his feet, inquiring for Farmer Bluff.
Elspeth at once invited him to enter. "A message from the Squire, sir?" asked she, as she closed the door behind him.
Elspeth knew all about the nature of the Squire's business with her master on the previous morning, for the old sinner, in his rage and vexation, had drunk more beer than ever, and had used more bad language than enough about it, whenever she had had occasion to go near him. She was not sure, moreover, how his dismissal would affect her own prospects, for he would be in receipt of less money; and ill as he could do without her help, in his frequently crippled condition, it was very doubtful whether the miserly old fellow would choose to draw upon his hoard in order to pay her the usual wages.
In that case, much as Elspeth disliked the idea of breaking away from the old place, she was determined to seek her fortune elsewhere; for it need hardly be said that Farmer Bluff was not the sort of master to win the affection of a dependant.
"For money," and not "for love," had been Elspeth's rule of service. Having, however, one or two cronies in the neighbourhood, from whom she did not care to part, she was fain to entertain a half hope that Hal might have been sent round to negotiate a compromise.
But Hal was not disposed to divulge the purpose of his visit.
"I want to see Farmer Bluff, if you please," said he, "if he's up. If not, perhaps you could take me to his room. I daresay he wouldn't mind."
Farmer Bluff was up, though, as Elspeth promptly informed the young gentleman; and, stepping to the parlour door, she flung it open, announcing, "The young Squire, sir."
Farmer Bluff, as it happened, was in a brown study, leaning forward on the elbows of his chair, with his eyes fixed on the fire. Not catching the first two words of Elspeth's announcement, he looked up with a start, expecting to see his master come to torment him again. His relief can best be imagined when, instead of meeting the penetrating gaze of the Squire, his eye fell upon the slight form of Hal, with his frank, boyish face all abeam to greet him, as he swung himself across the room.
"Good morning, Mr. Bluff," said he pleasantly. "I'm glad to find you up. You ought to be out this fine weather. You're missing ever so much, so I thought I'd come and have a chat with you about it."
"And make me want all the more to be out," said the old farmer, doing his best to assume a pleasant manner. But his thoughts, ever since Elspeth landed him in that chair, had been of such la disagreeable nature, that he found it quite impossible, all in a minute, to shake the growl out of his tone.
"I'm glad my legs don't prevent me getting out," said Hal, contemplating the bandaged limb with compassion, as he seated himself opposite, and lodged his crutches against his chair.
"You're not of a gouty age yet, young master," returned Farmer Bluff. "It'd be sorry work to have it at your time of life."
"It isn't everybody has it when they're old," said Hal. "My grandfather doesn't. I don't think I shall."
"Maybe not," returned Farmer Bluff. "'One thing at a time' is the saying. You've got your share in the way of legs."
"But I mean," explained Hal, determined to make this the thin end of his wedge; "I mean that I shall take care not to have it."
Bluff laughed—a cynical sort of laugh.
"You'll have to take pretty much what comes," croaked he.
"But some things don't come," said Hal.
"You don't send for 'em," returned the bailiff, with another laugh. "That's very certain; not such things as gout."
"Don't you?" said Hal. "It seems to me you do. Beer makes gout, doesn't it? You're always drinking beer."
The bailiff involuntarily reached out for his mug; but it was empty—which went to prove the truth of what Hal said. Farmer Bluff drank beer so often that he hardly knew when he did it.
"It may be partly owing to that mug," continued Hal, after a few minutes' consideration. "You're rather proud of it, you see. I think that's natural. But, do you know, if I had a mug that made me have the gout, I'd send it to the smith's to be melted down and made into something else. Let me see—you might have it converted into a silver inkhorn, like my grandfather's. You couldn't drink out of that."
"That's certain," returned the bailiff, amused in spite of himself.
"Well, will you think about it?" said Hal. "Because that's what I came about. You see, if you go on having gout, you can't go on being bailiff. My grandfather says so. It's one or the other; and it's quite fair, if you come to look at it. You're no bailiff if you have to sit with your leg up on a cushion all day like that; because you ought to be out and about the estate, seeing after things. And if it's your own fault that you can't, why, there's no doubt about it's being just; is there?"
Farmer Bluff shifted on his chair. He knew Hal was quite right. And Hal had brought out his arguments very warily too. First, that the gout was of the old fellow's own seeking; second, that being gouty, he couldn't attend to his business, and had clearly no right to be bailiff; and third, that this being so, he stood self-condemned, and could in nowise complain if the Squire turned him out.
Hal knew this very well, and was not surprised at getting no answer to his question. "I think I'll go now," said he, taking his crutches. "It's a beautiful morning. I wish you could be out of doors."
Farmer Bluff reached out for the bell, but Hal stopped him. "You needn't ring for the servant," said he. "I can get out all right by myself; and I daresay she's busy. When you have to wait on any one who can't move much, I should think it gives you a lot to do."
So the old farmer left the bell alone.
"I'm very much obliged to you for looking in, Master Hal," said he, as the boy did not attempt to go.
"I'll come again," said he, "if you like it. There's one thing more I was thinking. It's in the Bible. 'Thou hast destroyed thyself.' I don't remember who it was, but I've got the words in my head somehow. It's a pity to destroy yourself, isn't it?—Because there are so many ways that you can't help, of getting destroyed."
Farmer Bluff shifted again; and Hal, resting on his crutches, looked as if he very much wished he knew how to go on. But it was rather difficult, especially when the old fellow didn't make any reply.
At length, he put his right crutch forward, preparatory to moving on. "Well, good morning, Mr. Bluff," said he. "Don't forget about the mug; and I hope your gout will be better. I should like you to go on being bailiff when I'm Squire, because I'm used to you, and strangers aren't so nice. Good morning."
And away went the crutches across the floor, with their measured tap, tap, whilst the old bailiff sat looking after him with an astonished expression on his face; and when Hal, halting to turn the door-handle, gave him a last bright nod, he nodded too, twice or thrice. Then he twisted himself round in his chair, to watch the boy across the yard. But Hal went first to pay his respects to Grip, and peep round the corner of the house at Blazer. Catching sight of the old man through the window as he passed, however, he approached and put his face close to the glass.
"Don't forget the mug!" called he.
Whereupon Farmer Bluff, too much astonished even to nod, took the empty heirloom in his hand, turning it over and over, and falling back again into a brown study.
Out in the road again, Hal looked about for Dick. But he was nowhere to be seen. Dick was one of those people who find time hang very heavy when they have to wait; and seeking temporary diversion, he had completely forgotten his appointment with Hal.
Just past the farmyard was a pathway over the fields, behind the orchard and back premises; and having perched himself upon the stile to wait, it occurred to Dick to wonder where it led to. No sooner wondered than both Dick's legs were over the top-rail, and, jumping down, he started off to see for himself, whistling as he went.
Now, these back premises were Blazer's especial charge; and such a vigilant sentinel was Blazer, that he no sooner heard the sound of Dick's whistle than he was up in arms.
Dick came to a halt, remembering the character he had heard of the beast from Bill the Kicker's father. But at that very moment, who should appear from behind the orchard but Bill himself.
"Hullo!" called he.
Whereupon Blazer barked more furiously than ever.
Blazer had his own reasons for mistrusting the sound of Bill the Kicker's voice.
"Ain't he sharp!" said Bill. "He smells you out if you creep by ever so quiet."
Dick nodded. "What about the hornets' nest?" asked he eagerly.
But Bill put him off with a half answer. The fact was he had been in too much of a hurry in proclaiming it a nest, and it had turned out to be no such thing.
Meanwhile, Blazer had not ceased barking.
"Rather a dangerous animal, isn't he?" suggested Dick.
"I shouldn't care to meet him out for a walk," returned Bill.
"Is he near the hedge?" asked Dick.
"Agen' the back door," answered Bill. "You ain't afraid of him?" added he, with a grin.
"Why, no," said Dick, ashamed to own the contrary. "Lots of people go this way, I expect."
"In course," returned Bill; "else what's the pathway for? Nobody takes any notice of Blazer. My eye, though, ain't he wild if you get through the hedge!"
Dick inquired if Bill was ever guilty of such a thing.
Bill answered by a mysterious nod and the word "apples," accompanied by a jerk of his thumb towards the orchard. "You have to look out when there's nobody about, though," said he; "else he'd bring 'em out like a shot with his row. To see him, you'd think he'd break his chain."
"It's too strong I should think," said Dick, with a feeling, however, that it would be preferable to go without the apples rather than risk meeting Blazer off the chain.
"He got loose the other day, though," returned Bill. "Killed a goose, and made old Bluff so mad. Old Bluff always reckons to get a lot by his geese; and now there's a whole setting spoilt. Thirteen short for market next Christmas," added Bill knowingly.
Dick knew nothing about geese. He made numerous inquiries concerning their nesting and hatching, all of which country-bred Bill was able to answer in detail.
"They lay pretty big eggs I should think," said Dick, recollecting an ostrich egg which he had seen in a South African uncle's cabinet.
"Oh don't they!" responded Bill. "A dinner and a half for a chap. I often help myself when there's no one about."
Dick, instead of being shocked, looked rather envious of Bill's experience.
"I daresay I could get you one," hinted Bill obligingly. "They're worth a shilling each; but as it won't cost me nothing but the trouble, I'll say sixpence to you."
Dick thought that a good deal. Sixpences were not very handy in finding their way to his pockets for his father was by no means rich. The prospect was tempting, however; and not knowing that the sum named was full double the ordinary market price, he at once closed with the offer.
"When am I to have it?" asked he eagerly.
But this Bill was not prepared to say. It depended on so many things; on Blazer, on Elspeth, on his father, and on the geese. So Dick must needs be content with a conditional promise that at some time or other, within the shortest possible limit, he should be in possession of the coveted delicacy.
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THE SHORTEST CUT.
BILL the Kicker had his own reasons for wanting sixpence.
A few days since, being very hard up for a pocket-knife, he had watched an opportunity to abstract the necessary amount from his mother's rent-money; and he was anxious to replace it before the theft was discovered.
This rent-money was the proceeds of his mother's exertions with her mangle, and was always dropped into an old tea-pot occupying a place of honour on the mantel-shelf—each amount put in or taken out being duly entered in red pencil on a square of card, which also had its quarters in this Britannia-metal safe.
Now it always fell to Bill's lot to carry the mangling home out of school hours; and it seemed to him, when he got the idea of taking the sixpence, that it was nothing but fair he should have something for his pains.
"If other people don't pay you, why, you must pay yourself," reasoned Bill. "That's square enough."
When he came to see the red pencil entries on the card, he was somewhat shaken as to the safety of this policy, however "fair and square" it might be. It was not even as if he had been one of many brothers. The coin would certainly be missed; and upon whom but himself should suspicion fall?
It occurred to him to make the experiment of rubbing out one of the entries. He had no eraser, but he was pretty ready with expedients. Quick as lightning, one finger went to his mouth, and thence to the tidily kept account; but such a horrible smear was the result, that his hair almost stood on end. It was impossible but that his mother would see that the card had been tampered with; if, in addition, she found the money sixpence short, the mischief would be out, and he would be "in for it."
Exactly what that might mean was not clear to Bill. All he knew was that his father had given him the strap on one occasion, and that he did not desire a repetition of the experience. It was already Thursday. Under ordinary circumstances, the sixpence would have had to be replaced before Monday. But since Farmer Bluff had been laid up, the rents had been running; so that, unless the Squire suddenly took it into his head to send some one round, there would be no particular hurry.
Bill, however, was shrewd enough to believe in being on the safe side. Accordingly, he had left no stone unturned to put himself in a position to restore the stolen sixpence. The scheme about the hornets' nest having fallen through, he had even hunted up and down outside the shop fronts in the street, in hopes of picking up change dropped by some careless housewife when out marketing. But, fortunately for the good of thieves, they do not often receive such encouragement in their crooked ways; and Bill's researches proved fruitless.
He was still puzzling his brains after a way out of the difficulty, when Dick's curiosity about geese furnished the very idea he wanted. Bill had robbed the hens' nests before this, as well as the orchard. What was to prevent him from getting a goose's egg?
To be sure, geese were not very nice to have to do with.
Jenny Greenlow, carrying her father's dinner along the riverbank to the Infirmary, where he was at work upon the roof, had been attacked by one and knocked down; and there the child had lain until her father, badly in want of his meal and perplexed at her delay, went along to meet her, and found her half dead with fright, whilst the goose was still feeding on the contents of the basket. But the goose was probably attracted by the smell of the basket's contents; and then Jenny was only a girl! What goose of any sense would dream of molesting a boy! Bill went to work at once to plan the details of the adventure, delighted with the scheme.
Due consideration suggested morning, while the farm men were at breakfast, as the most suitable time for carrying it into effect. So far as he knew, none of them were in the habit of taking their provisions with them. As they all lived in the row adjoining his father's cottage, a mere stone's throw away, they found it pay better to slip in and drink their coffee hot by their own fireside. A few minutes after the stroke of eight, therefore, Bill might make pretty sure that the coast would be clear.
The geese, too, having laid their eggs and been fed, would have wandered away to their pastures. There was only one other thing to be considered. The hole in the hedge through which he meant to creep was behind the shed, but so soon as he crept round to the door, Blazer was sure to catch sight of him; and if Elspeth were anywhere near at hand, his noise was sure to bring her out. Out of this difficulty, however, Bill saw positively no way. The only thing was to hope that Elspeth would be busy waiting on her master just then, and to dare the rest.
"I've done worse things before now," said Bill to himself, by way of encouragement.
Accordingly, next morning he was up with the sun, determined to get quickly through his woodchopping, and the various other duties that were expected of him. On ordinary occasions, Bill was given to being rather slow.
"If you're through too quick, you get more to do next day," was his way of arguing; so he always took care to make his work last out, as a country boy knows how.
But on this morning, he was particularly brisk. He had just finished, and was counting on getting clean off, when he heard his mother's voice.
"Bill!—Oh!—Just done, are you? You've been spry. Here!" As Bill was lounging off. "I just want you to come and help me through with this mangling; and there 'll be time to run with Mrs. Wayling's before daddy comes in to breakfast."
At the first mention of mangling, all Bill's sense of justice had risen in rebellion; but an errand before breakfast fell in with his plans beautifully.
His mother thought he had never come with such alacrity, and wondered what magic it was that regulated the moods and caprices of boyhood. "He's that slow and obstinate by times," she said to herself, as she spread the folded linen ready; "and look at him this morning. Couldn't be a better help if he was a girl, and grown-up!" She little thought.
"Mother," said the wily Bill presently, on coming to the end of a batch. "Mother, I'm awful hungry; and it's a good step to Mrs. Wayling's. Couldn't I have a bit o' summat afore I start out? They keep you such a while up there; likely it'll be half over before I get in."
"To be sure you can," answered his mother, thoroughly pleased with his cheerful industry. And forthwith going to the dresser, she cut and spread a thick slice. "Have what you want afore you go," said she, reckoning to get things cleared up and out of her way, ready for her ironing by and by.
And Bill stood munching hungrily, as he waited to start, turning afresh, and congratulating himself that now, come what might, his breakfast was secure.
It was about half-past seven when he set out for Mrs. Wayling's with the bundle on his head. It was a good distance. Mrs. Wayling was the schoolmaster's wife, and lived up by the church. Bill usually took a barrow; but this time he had his own reasons for wishing to be entirely unencumbered so soon as ever he should have delivered his burden. A barrow would not be handy at stiles, and he intended coming back by the river and the fields, so as to avoid the chance of meeting his father.
Bill was warm by the time he arrived at the schoolhouse. He had got over the ground pretty quickly, considering the weight of his burden, and the church clock still wanted two minutes of the quarter. If only they did not keep him waiting, he would be back at the farm at the very right moment.
As luck would have it, the servant returned almost immediately, to say that her mistress had no change, and would send the money round with the next bundle of linen. And Bill, only too glad to be free, money or no money, nodded and ran off towards the river as fast as his legs would carry him.
It was a good deal farther that way, but Bill had now nothing but himself to carry. In a very short time, he had reached the riverbank, and was hurrying along the towing-path. The geese were already in the field. He saw them marching towards the river in their pompous way, with the old white gander at their head. There would be nothing to fear from them; and, puffing and panting with hurry and excitement, Bill scudded along until he reached the back of the orchard, when he slackened pace and went tiptoe, stealing along behind the hedge towards the hole through which he intended to creep.
It was not much of a gap, for it had grown-up a bit since last Bill had squeezed through—which was when the apples were ripe. But gap or no gap wasn't going to stand in his way just then. Bill got down into the ditch, to wait until he should hear eight strike and the men tramp past to breakfast. He had not long been there when the clock sounded out the hour.
Bill took his hands out of his pockets, and laid hold of a stoutish stem of whitethorn on either side, breaking or bending back the smaller twigs, so as to clear his passage. Then he waited again. He could plainly hear somebody moving about inside the hedge, and he began to be terribly afraid that one of the men had made up his mind to spare himself the trouble of going home to breakfast.
Bill let go the whitethorn stems in dismay.
"There's a go!" exclaimed he to himself. It seemed such a pity, too, when everything was so splendidly arranged. But just then, he heard the footsteps moving towards the door of the shed.
"Gone eight, mate?" asked a voice.
Blazer sprang to his feet and uttered a bark; but there was no other answer.
"Blest if oi yeerd it strike!" exclaimed the voice. "But they be all gone, sarting sure, and oi be left behoind. Oi reckon that 'ere clock bean't much account. 'Twants a bigger clapper to t' bell."
And with these words, the door banged to, and the hobnails went dragging across the yard. It was old Jaggers, the cowman, who was as deaf as a post, and was always getting "left behind" if his mates forgot to hail him when the breakfast hour arrived.
The coast was clear at last. Bill laid hands anew on the whitethorn stems. But at that very moment, a dull thud, thud, in his other ear made him stop short. It was a sound of approaching footsteps on the worn grass of the footway. Some one was coming along from the river-side. Would interruptions never cease? Bill gave a guilty look round. It would not do to be seen in the ditch.
A yard or two to the right was a large bramble bush, which had sprung up on the field and straggled over to the hedge, catching hold of the whitethorn with its thorny arms, and interlacing with the blackberry brambles in a thick tangle. Under this shelter, he crept to hide.
Thud, thud came the steps, nearer and nearer. A few minutes more and he would be able to come out. But just as the passer-by reached the very spot where Bill crouched in hiding, the footsteps suddenly ceased.
Bill was puzzled. Who could it be? And why had he stopped exactly there? Bill was shrewd enough to know that if he could not see, neither could he be seen; but it was too bad to be obliged to stop there whilst the moments of that precious half-hour were running to waste.
At length, impatience got the better of prudence, and he determined to get a peep, at the risk of being discovered. With this intent, he commenced creeping by inches towards the limit of his shelter. But a boy's eyes cannot be in two places at once. In his anxiety to keep a watch on the bank, he entirely forgot the necessity of looking to his feet. At the very moment when he caught sight of a well-blacked boot, down slipped his foot into a deep hole, and poor, luckless Bill suddenly found himself measuring his length at the bottom of the ditch.
"Hullo!" exclaimed a voice from above. "What's up?"
Bill was not hurt; but he lay quiet, still hoping to escape discovery. The owner of the voice, however, to whom the boot also belonged, was not likely to be so easily satisfied.
"What's up?" repeated he, facing about, and seeing to his infinite astonishment a somewhat unkempt figure sprawling at the bottom of the ditch.
Finding concealment impossible, Bill scrambled to his feet with a sheepish grin.
"What are you after?" asked the stranger.
He was dressed in a suit of dark-coloured tweed, and had under his arm what looked like a bundle of deal sticks and a flat, square package buckled up in a shiny black case. Bill's rapid survey satisfied him that he did not belong to the neighbourhood, and that it was therefore safe to tell as many lies as ingenuity could invent.
"Rats," answered he promptly. "Got a hole here; and they steals the eggs."
"Ah!" observed the gentleman. "And you get so much a head for them, eh?"
Bill nodded.
The gentleman turned on his heel, laughing to himself at the idea that any rat should be so unwary as to come out of his hole when somebody was by to knock him on the head. A minute later, he had forgotten the whole thing, and relapsed into his former attitude, looking away across the fields to the right. He was an artist, and had come down by rail to make the best of the mild spring day; for there was an open view of the church from that point before the leaves were thick.
Bill, not knowing all this, stood at the bottom of the ditch staring at his back, and wondering what spirit of contrariness could possess him that he must choose that very spot to loiter on. He was just thinking whether it would be safe to leave him out of the question altogether, and proceed to the business of getting through the hedge, when the gentleman faced about again.
"Hullo!" said he, unrolling the bundle of sticks under his arm as he spoke, and nodding towards the farm. "You don't work there?"
Bill shook his head. "My father does though," answered he.
"You couldn't borrow a chair for me, I suppose," said the gentleman. "They know you, I daresay."
Bill stared for a minute or two, then suddenly broke into a grin. "Dessay I could," said he.
"Well, look sharp!" returned the gentleman. "And I'll give you a copper."
To his infinite astonishment, Bill had no sooner received the order, than he advanced a few steps along the ditch, turned his face to the hedge, and seizing firm hold of the two whitethorn sterns, commenced drawing himself through the gap.
"He knows how to take an order," said the artist to himself. "That's what I call going the shortest cut."
Meanwhile, Bill's mental comment was, "My! If he ha'n't nearly done me!" And he made like a shot for the door of the shed, casting a rapid glance towards Blazer's kennel, to see if he were on the watch. For once, however, Blazer was otherwise occupied, and Bill gained the shed unobserved.
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"CONSCIENCE MAKES COWARDS OF US ALL."
ON first peeping into the shed, Bill was disconcerted to see a goose on one of the nests.
But Bill was no coward when there was anything to be gained. He went cautiously forward towards the furthest boxes, keeping an eye on the sitting bird the while, and ready to beat a retreat on the first alarm. But the goose had no intention of quitting her position. She only raised her head with a little warning scream and hiss; and he reached the nests without further challenge.
Bill uttered an exclamation of delight. In the first nest were three eggs; in the second, two. "Let's make 'em even," said he, possessing himself of the odd egg, and stowing it carefully in his jacket-tail.
Just as he was about to turn, however, an idea came to him. Ten to one such a splendid chance would not return in a hurry. "One a-piece 'll be fairer," said he, taking an egg from the other nest, and tucking it in the opposite pocket. "They can lay another," added he, with a grin. Then he recrossed the shed, and regained the door.
Peeping round, before venturing out, he saw that Blazer had come out of his kennel, and was standing on the alert, waiting for somebody to bark at. Bill's first impulse was to draw back. Perhaps the dog had heard the goose's scream. But second thought convinced him that to think of remaining longer in the shed was useless, and that, in fact, the sooner he got out of it the better, since by this time it must be very close on half-past eight. With another glance at Blazer, he slipped out and darted round the side of the shed. But Blazer had seen him, and dashed forward on his chain with a furious bark.
Bill turned, terrified, half expecting to see Blazer on his heels; and not looking to see where he was going, ran full tilt against the corner of the shed, leaving the print of a louvre-board on his eyebrow. But anyhow he was safe behind the shed, and Blazer was not loose.
Bill felt his pockets tenderly, congratulating himself that the blow had been in front instead of behind. Then the difficulty of getting through the gap without smashing the eggs occurred to him for the first time. "Head first 'll be the style," decided he at length; and with another guilty glance, to make sure that Blazer was not on his track, down he went on hands and knees, wriggling through the gap, and reaching down with his hands until they touched the bottom then paddling along sideways, much after the fashion of a lizard coming out of his hole.
It was not surprising that his face was pretty red by the time he got to his feet. His first thought was to feel whether the eggs were safe. He had been terribly afraid they would roll out of his pockets as he felt his jacket-tails fall forward on to his shoulders whilst he was upside down; but they were none the worse.
He was still feeling them over when he suddenly became aware of the artist standing on the bank looking down at him. He had set up his easel, and was waiting for his chair.
Bill's hands came out of his pockets all in a hurry. Like all people who have anything to conceal, he felt as if everybody must guess his guilty secret.
"Hullo!" said the artist. "I should come through feet first next time, if I were you. Where's all chair? Wouldn't they give it you?"
Bill was one of those unscrupulous people who are never at loss for an answer.
"Dog's got loose," said he.
"Ah!" said the artist, glancing uncomfortably at the gap through which Bill had just come. Where a boy could get through, a dog could also. "A savage brute, is he?" asked he.
"Well, rather," admitted Bill. "I'd sooner you met him than me," he added, feeling his injured eyebrow tenderly. "I ran agen' the shed, I did."
"He isn't likely to come through after you?" asked the artist, still with an uneasy eye on the gap.
Bill shook his head.
"Couldn't say for positive," answered he. "Dogs is wonderful keen. But I could go round to the front and tell 'em to chain him up."
"Do so," said the artist promptly.
And Bill, feeling rather awkwardly conscious of his jacket-tails, started off, to lay siege to Grip's domain.
Within the space of ten minutes he returned, carrying a chair, and followed by Elspeth, who had in view two ends—first, to insure the safety of her chair; second, to inform the gentleman that if he should be wanting lunch, she could make arrangements for his comfort in her front kitchen. Bill having intimated that the gent was rather timid of dogs, she also added that there was nothing to fear from either animal, as they were both on the chain.
Meanwhile Bill, with the eggs still in his pockets, stood at the artist's elbow, watching his preparations with a curious eye, and waiting for his copper.
"I'm going to make a picture of the church," said the artist presently. "Perhaps I may want a boy in the foreground. Would you like me to put you in?"
Bill looked up sharply, and nodded.
"That'd be two coppers, sir, wouldn't it?" said he.
"Well, yes; I suppose it would," admitted the artist carelessly. "Go and stand yonder against that tussock, and let me see how picturesque you can look."
Bill obeyed.
"Put your arms up as if you were carrying something," the artist called to him. Then after a minute or so, beckoning him back. "I shan't want you for an hour or two," said he. "No doubt you could bring a basket or a bundle. Or stay! You haven't got a goat or a donkey—or a little brother?"
Bill hadn't; but he thought it might be possible to borrow one.
"That'd be three coppers, sir, wouldn't it?" bargained that mercenary young scamp.
"Oh! Come," returned the artist; "you're too sharp by half for a country boy. I daresay some one else will come along who will think it an honour to be put in a picture and hung in the Academy. If it ever attains to that honour," he added to himself, as Bill anxious not to lose all by his grasping, declared himself ready and willing to stand on any terms.
"Very well, then," concluded the artist, who had taken rather a fancy to the boy's shaggy appearance. "In an hour or two, I shall expect you back."
And Bill went off up the field towards the river.
Truth to tell, those two goose eggs were beginning to weigh very heavy in Bill's pockets. It was quite a chance when he might meet with Dick Crozier; but it was plain he could not carry an egg about in his pocket until he did. One, of course, he intended to suck as soon as he was at a safe distance from the farm; but meantime the other must be hidden somewhere. Bill wandered on; but the fine day had brought a good many people out, and he kept meeting first one, then another, until at length he arrived at the riverbank without having had a chance of tasting his stolen sweets.
The geese had reached the bank too, and were standing about in various attitudes of burlesque dignity, some snapping the grass with their great, broad bills, others with their awkward necks upstretched, always ready to scream. They numbered ten or a dozen.
"Ah! Mrs. Geese," Bill thought to himself as he approached, "I wonder which of you these eggs belong to. You'll just have the trouble of laying a couple more, unless you choose to go short of eggs to sit on."
He had often been that way before, and laughed at the idea of being afraid of geese; but somehow this time, as he drew near, every head in the flock seemed turned to look upon him, and when they commenced their usual "Ya-hi!—Ya-hi!" he stopped short, to consider the advisability of going on.
Of course it was nonsense to suppose that they could know anything about the theft. But the thief knew, which was the same thing with a difference; it is so true, that wise old saying that "conscience makes cowards of us all."
If Bill had looked behind, he would have seen Dick Crozier coming along from the opposite direction.
Dick had at length determined upon using "his common sense" in the matter. Having accidentally transgressed his father's injunctions on the morning when he made the Squire's acquaintance, he had come to the conclusion that he would get no harm by repeating the accident on purpose, with regard to the river. He had found his way by another field-path, a mile or two beyond the Manor Farm, and was now coming along the towing-path, with the intention of returning by the way which Bill had just come.
Bill, however, was too much engrossed to notice anything but the geese. He was having a fight with his own cowardice, and had just gained the victory.
"It's all rubbish," he was saying to himself; "as if they could know!" And he set forward at a determined pace.
Just then the foremost goose waddled forward, assuming a decidedly hostile attitude; and at the same instant Dick, recognising Bill from behind, gave a shrill whistle. Between the goose and the whistle, Bill was so startled that he came to a sudden halt, completely unmanned; then seeing the goose still advance, he turned to fly.
This, of course, was the last thing he should have done; for the bird no sooner saw his back, than ducking her head and opening her wings, she rushed forward with a scream. Bill heard her coming, and put on the speed; but the goose was sure to win the race. A minute later, she would have had him by the back of his small clothes, had not Bill, in flinging a terrified glance over his shoulder, swerved to the edge of the towing-path, and overbalancing himself, slipped and fallen, rolling over and over down the incline into the ditch that separated the bank from the field.
The enraged goose was after him like lightning, screaming and flapping her wings. But Bill's terrified imagination put spurs to his energy. Imagining that the whole flock had taken up the fray, he scrambled to his feet, and plucking up all his valour, just as the goose rushed forward, he caught her in the breast-bone with such a fling of his heavy boot as sent her staggering and rolling over backwards, silenced at any rate for the present.
Meanwhile Dick, seeing Bill in difficulties, had maintained a safe distance; he now came on, whilst Bill, fearing the recovery of the goose, or the vengeance of her allies, fled towards him, panting and red in the face.
"Killed her?" called Dick excitedly.
"Dunno," cried Bill, without so much as turning to look back. "Run!"
And Dick adopting the suggestion, both lads sped as if for their lives.
"That was a first-rate kick!" was Dick's admiring comment, when they at length stopped where a bend of the river and a clump of weeping-willows suggested safety.
The terrible geese were now only visible a long way behind over the water, with their necks still upstretched, and now and then screaming a faint "ya-hi!" as a bird flew across, or some equally unimportant matter arrested their attention.
Bill felt rather foolish. "Guess I shan't come this way again in a hurry," observed he.
Dick remarked that he didn't know geese were dangerous.
"Oh! Ain't they, though," said Bill, changing his opinions to suit his case. "You've only seen 'em hangin' up by the necks, I guess. Never offered to touch me before, though," added he, with a touch of bravado. "Seems like they know when you've been meddling with their nests."
"Have you got it?" asked Dick eagerly, referring to the promised egg.
Bill nodded. "One a-piece," said he, clapping a hand to each jacket-tail. Then suddenly remembering his roll down the bank, his face fell,—"I'm licked!" exclaimed he with a blank look. "If they ain't all smashed! Now, there's a go!"
What a mess it was; and what a face Bill made as he drew his hands out, yellow and sticky, and stood staring helplessly at Dick!
"There's a go!" repeated Dick. "My word and honour!"
"After all that trouble!" added Bill, thinking of the sitting goose and Farmer Bluff's dog Blazer, and all the other obstacles he had surmounted. "It's sixpence all the same though," added he.
Bill had pulled his jacket off by this time, and was down upon his knees on the grass, turning out the pockets.
"Don't you wish you may get it!" returned Dick derisively. "You don't call that an egg?"
Bill had got his mouth down to one pocket, lapping, up the yellow mess. "It warn't my fault they broke," said he, looking up, his face all smeared with yolk.
"Nor mine; that's certain," retorted Dick decisively, turning on his heel. "You can have the other one too," he called over his shoulder as he went.
"Stop a bit!" cried Bill. "Hi! Stop! It's sixpence, or I split on you!"
"Will you though!" retorted Dick, facing round with a jeer. "Who stole 'em?"
"Who asked me to?" retorted Bill.
"Who offered to?" Dick flung back.
"I don't do anything again for you in a hurry," said Bill, applying his mouth to the other pocket. "You're a sneak!"
But Dick only jeered, and went his way.
Bill knelt upright a minute or two, to look after him; then he proceeded to lay himself out flat on the bank, feet furthest from the edge, and set to work washing out the pockets in the river.