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LOOSE AGAIN.
ON reaching the stile by the Manor Farm, the Squire went on to the cottages with Bill, leaving Hal to return home alone, and tell his mother all that had happened. They had scarcely parted, when Dick, surrounded by a number of his schoolfellows, overtook him.
Dick threw Hal a nod, proud to show off his grand acquaintance; but Hal beckoned him.
"Bill's come home," said he, as Dick ran forward from the group.
"Hooray!" shouted the other boys, who, of course, had seen the whole story in the local newspaper. "Hooray!" And half-a-dozen caps flew in the air.
But Hal's business was with Dick.
"I'm disappointed in you, Dick," said he.
"How's that?" returned Dick in a tone of bravado, guessing what Hal meant.
"I didn't think you were the sort of boy to encourage other boys in stealing eggs for you to suck," said Hal. "It seems to me, I'd rather steal myself than get another boy to do it for me. You see, it's very mean to put your dirty work upon another fellow, isn't it?"
"I paid him fair," said Dick.
Hal considered a minute. This line of argument was rather difficult to answer, and yet Hal's sense of right and wrong told him it was false.
"You'd no right to pay him for dishonesty," said he; "so no payment could be fair."
"I don't know so much about that," returned Dick stoutly. "If a fellow's fool enough to sell his soul for sixpence, that's his own look out. It's always fair to pay a fellow what he'll take."
"That's not the way to look at it at all," said Hal. "A fellow's soul is worth a great deal more than any one can pay, and if he loses it, he's done for outright. And whoever gets it from him, is his murderer for ever," added Hal quite solemnly. "The Bible tells you that."
"Chapter the one hundredth, verse the millionth!" sang out Dick in a mocking tone.
"Well, I must be getting home," said Hal. "I'm sorry, for I liked you at the first. And I thought that when I came to be Squire—if ever I do—you would be one of my best tenants, and help me to make the Manor prosperous. You see, a Squire wouldn't be able to do much good if all his tenants were like that, and didn't care a pin about each other's souls."
Will and Sigismund would have been rather envious of Hal's good fortune in the enjoyment of such an adventure as the finding of a runaway by Farmer Bluff's dog Blazer, had not their attention been rather taken up just then with the half-term holiday, which some cousins were to spend with them. These cousins were London boys, and were coming down that same evening, to make the most of a whole day at the Manor House. When Hal got in, his brothers were just getting up into the waggonette to fetch them from the station, and there was plenty else to talk about when they came in.
The first thing after breakfast next morning, the six boys all turned out, bent upon fun and frolic.
Dick was on his way down the hill with his books as they came out shouting and laughing on to the terrace, and he sprang up to the palings to see what was going on.
But, unfortunately for Dick, it was not "half-term" at his school; so with a feeling of envy, he leapt back to the pathway, and continued his road.
"Hare and hounds!" he heard them cry, as they came pelting down the drive.
Will was with the foremost ones, but Sigismund, always more considerate for his brother, lagged behind, as Hal came hurrying after on his crutches.
"You can't play, Hal, if we have hare and hounds," he was saying.
"Oh! Never mind," returned Hal. "I can't play at anything, you see."
"The woods will be the place," cried Will, in front, "Say, Sidge; the woods—eh?"
"But Hal—" began Sigismund.
"The woods, by all means," echoed Hal, however, interrupting him. "It's no use, Sidge, don't you see," added he, in a lower tone to Sigismund. "If you'd got my legs, you wouldn't want everybody to stop playing on your account."
A boy of Hal's brave disposition was sure to find it less hard to bear his affliction quietly than to feel himself a constant mar-joy to the others.
"I'll go as far as the wood with you," continued he; "and then I'll go inside and rest. I told Farmer Bluff the boys were coming, but I said that I expected I should be able to go and see him all the same."
So at the gate of the wood they parted; and whilst Will, as swiftest runner, was being chosen "hare," Hal was climbing up the narrow stair to Farmer Bluff's room.
"I've come, you see," said he cheerily, as he swung himself towards the bed.
Farmer Bluff's face brightened.
"I was thinking of ye," answered he.
"It's rather early, I'm afraid," continued Hal; "but I came down with the others as far as this. They've all gone into the wood for hare and hounds, and I can't manage that, you know. I hope you don't mind."
Farmer Bluff, on the contrary, expressed himself heartily delighted to see "the young Squire."
"You and Maggie," said he, "I don't know what I should do without the two of you—though I suppose I oughtn't to mention you in one breath."
Hal, with a puzzled expression, said that he did not see why. He generally managed to see to the bottom of things pretty quickly, and to catch people's meaning when it was not quite on the surface. But this notion perplexed him not a little. Inequality of rank did not enter much into Hal's ideas.
"She sings to you, doesn't she?" observed he presently, after having thought all round the question in vain.
"And you talk," rejoined Farmer Bluff. "Maggie doesn't talk; she chatters, if she does anything in that line."
"I like to talk," answered Hal simply; "as much as other boys like to run and jump, I fancy; perhaps it is because I can't run and jump."
"Perhaps it is," said Farmer Bluff. He was thinking that it seemed as if God had given the boy a better power in exchange for the one He had withheld. "A ready tongue 'll be useful to you when you come to the Manor," added he.
"Only I shan't be able to follow the hounds," said Hal regretfully.
"Never you grieve for that," returned Farmer Bluff. "You'll have the hearts of your tenantry; that I'll certify."
"Farmer Bluff," said Hal suddenly, "I've been thinking a good deal about Dick Crozier since yesterday. I expect he'll be one of my tenants by and by, you know, and I'm afraid he won't be a very good one."
"About the average run, perhaps," said Farmer Bluff. "Some better, and some worse."
"But don't you see," said Hal, "he's got no principle. He doesn't think it matters the least bit in the world if a boy chooses to sell his soul for sixpence—like Bill, when he thieved to get the goose egg for him."
Farmer Bluff was silent. He knew so well how many men there were among the tenantry—how many who owned manors, too—with little or no principle.
It was on his conscience, too, how he himself had sold his soul time and again for drink, for pleasure, or for gain.
"There 'll be some things you'll have to take as you find 'em," said he presently.
"I should like to alter that,"' said Hal. "There must be a remedy."
"No one has ever found it yet," said Farmer Bluff.
"Perhaps they haven't looked in the right place," said Hal. "I expect it's in the Bible, if it's anywhere."
"Maybe 'tis," said Farmer Bluff; and then he was silent a good while again. "I don't know much, about the Bible," he continued presently. "I didn't use to read it when I could, and I can't hold a feather now, much less a book."
So it came about, that Hal proposed to read it for him. And when Maggie came upstairs, he was sitting by her uncle's bedside, with the Bible on his knee. But the information Maggie brought put a stop to reading rather suddenly.
"Uncle Bluff!" cried she. "Blazer's loose again. I don't know where he is."
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TO THE RESCUE.
DICK CROZIER was on the Squire's mind as well as upon Hal's.
Upon the stroke of noon, he left his study and started up the hill. "He'll be in by half-past twelve, or thereabouts," he calculated; "and I'll have a talk with him."
Now it happened that Dick's master, having a train to catch for town on important business, Dick had got out of school rather earlier than usual. Just as he turned the corner by the Manor Farm, he spied the Squire plodding up the hill with his gold-headed cane.
Dick halted instantly, for it occurred to him that precisely the same thing he had warned Bill of was about to happen to himself.
"I'm in for a good lecture," said he, "and if my father don't 'give it me' when he hears, my name ain't Dick, that's all."
So, after due reflection, Dick concluded that it would be most prudent policy to give the Squire the slip.
"I shan't go in till dinner-time," said Dick. And going back across the road, he struck into the pathway for that still forbidden ground, the riverbank.
Meanwhile the Squire, totally unconscious of having been spied out, was seated in the sunny little parlour which Dick's mother loved so well, making acquaintance with his tenant's wife, and explaining the nature of his errand.
"He should be in by now, sir," said Dick's mother, looking at her watch,—her grandparents' present on her wedding day,—"but he gets late sometimes."
So the Squire proposed to wait awhile, if Mrs. Crozier would allow him to; and they talked, to pass away the time, Mrs. Crozier taking the Squire's heart by storm with her gentle manners, but looking uneasily at her watch from time to time.
Bill had been received back home with open arms, and without a word of scolding, on a promise—signed by the Squire, as it were—of future good behaviour. It happened that, being anxious to avoid a meeting with Dick Crozier, whose school stood within a stone's throw of the parish school which he attended, Bill had conceived the idea of returning by the riverbank. In arriving at this resolution, he had not forgotten the geese; but Bill was sharp enough to know that now the grass was laid down for hay, these terrors of humanity would no longer be abroad. He set off, accordingly, with the virtuous intention of running great part of the way, so as to reach home punctually. Dick had not proceeded far along the bank, therefore, when he perceived Bill coming full speed towards him.
Bill, too much out of breath to look higher than his toes, failed to perceive Dick until they were within a few yards of each other, when he suddenly awoke to the unpleasant fact that he was face to face with his enemy.
"Hullo, sneak!" exclaimed Dick.
"Let be!" cried Bill, as Dick attempted to bar his passage.
But Dick did not budge. He only dodged Bill, without attempting to make way.
"I'm in a hurry home," said Bill. "Let me by."
"Sneak!" repeated Dick. "Who split?"
"I didn't split," said Bill. "They made me tell."
"Made you tell?" sneered Dick. "When you had sixpence of me to hold your tongue! I'd have had mine cut out before I'd have been guilty of such a dirty trick."
"You'd 'a' had your'n cut out afore you'd 'a' been guilty of such a dirty trick as to suck an egg what you got another boy to steal for you!" retorted Bill, stammering and spluttering in his warmth. "It's 'receiving stolen goods.' The Squire said so; and you're to be had up for it."
Dick only answered by a mocking guffaw.
"Now, then," said Bill, "are you going to let me by?"
"Look out for old mother goose behind there," jeered Dick.
"Let me by!" reiterated Bill. "I'm in a hurry."
"Washerwoman!" jeered Dick. "Sixpence a pocketful."
Bill was getting exasperated. Moreover, he saw only one way out of it. "Now, then," threatened he suddenly, gathering up all his pluck, "do you mean to give in?"
Dick answered by striding across the bank, a foot each side and both arms akimbo, and burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. But Bill cut him short.
"You'd better look out then," shouted he, squaring up.
"All right," grinned Dick, accepting the challenge. "Look out for a ducking, pockets and all. It was a goosing last time."
This last fling was more than Bill could stand.
"Come on!" roared he, maddened beyond control. And rushing for Dick with both fists doubled, he went at him with all his might.
Dick was a pretty tough boy, and had done his share of fights at school; but Bill was tougher, and Dick soon found that he was in for such a mauling as he had never had in all his previous experience. For full five minutes, they tugged and tussled, and pounded and hammered at all available portions of each other's frames, until Dick began to wish that he had never provoked the combat. He was almost at the end of his strength, when a most unlooked-for accident delivered him out of Bill's hands.
Forgetting the narrowness of the footway in the heat of the fight, the boys had got crosswise, instead of lengthwise of it, when Dick, suddenly growing furious, to find that he was being worsted, drew off an instant, to gather up all his strength for a final onset; but, inadvertently stepping too far back, his heel struck over the treacherous grass of the shelving bank, and, with a slip and a yell, he went splashing backwards into the water.
Bill's first impulse was a shout of triumph; his second, that when a boy goes head over heels out of his depth, there is no telling how he will come up. Bill knew the look of a drowned dog, and had no wish to be taxed with making Dick look that way. Quick as thought, he turned to fly.
But though a scamp, Bill was not altogether bad. In the midst of all his fears, it struck him that people always rose to the surface before they drowned. If Dick rose, he might reach him. In an instant, he was back again. The exact spot was easy to find by the heel-mark on the bank and the brown swirl in the water, where the mud had been disturbed. Some distance out, too, beyond the ripples where the water had closed over Dick, was his cap, floating merrily down stream; but not a sign of Dick himself.
Bill went hot all over. Once having turned back, he seemed rooted to the spot by a strange fascination that forced him to watch for Dick's rising.
"It was his own fault," said he, mopping his forehead with one jacket cuff: "He should ha' let me by! I guess though, if he ain't comin' up, I'd better be off, afore I'm caught here! Golly!" exclaimed Bill, giving vent to his favourite expression, as a sudden thought flashed upon him. "Better rob a goose's nest and break her breast-bone than drownd a boy." And off he started at a run.
But as he ran away down the stream, following the cap, a dark brown object caught his eye. It was the drenched hair of Dick's head. The current there below the bend was very strong, and had washed him out into mid-stream, and was carrying him rapidly along towards the weir.
For a moment Bill scarcely knew whether to be glad or sorry; then the nobler instincts of his nature gained the upper hand, and he dashed along the bank, shouting—"Hold on! Keep it up till I catch hold of something to fish you out!"
At the same instant, there was an outcry from among the willow-trees. A dog sprang forward with a bark, and a dear treble voice rang out excitedly—"Why! It's some one's head! In, Blazer; in! Fetch him out! Oh! Quick! Quick!"
It was Maggie Rust, who had gone out with Hal to look for the dog, and found him on the riverbank, worrying at a knuckle bone dropped there by a careless butcher boy on his way to the Vicarage.
A bare moment sufficed Blazer to reach the bank, and in he splashed, paddling bravely across the current, with his fierce eyes starting, and his hard breaths frothing the surface of the water as he swam.
Maggie cheered him on. "Quick, Blazer; quick! Oh, he's floating down so fast!" she cried towards Hal, who had been slower getting to his feet to gain the spot. "He'll never reach in time."
But Blazer was also going with the stream as well as crossing it. In a few minutes more, the brave animal was up with Dick, and had his teeth firmly fastened in his jacket. And now came the tug of war. Maggie watched breathlessly, with beating heart and tightly clasped hands, whilst Hal, his face white and his lips parted, hung by her on his crutches. But Blazer was strong, and the water buoyed his burden up. The stream, too, helped in one way, whilst it hindered in another; for it lengthened every stroke, and carried him forward as he tried to cross back to the shore.
"Hurrah!" shouted Hal, at length unable any longer to keep his excitement in. "Hurrah! He'll do it! He'll do it! Hurrah!"
And Maggie's hands unclasped to clap as she took up the cry—"Hurrah!"
On first recognising "the young Squire," Bill had come to a sudden halt, and watched from a safe distance, half a mind to turn back; then he had come slowly on. Now he, too, took up the cheer with his whole might, and shouted—"Hooray!—Hooray!" as he ran excitedly forward.
A minute more, Dick was at the bank, and Maggie had sprung forward to help him out, whilst Blazer ran round about them in great glee, claiming praise for his heroic rescue, and splashing everybody with the water of his coat. Bill hung back an instant; then he, too, sprang to Maggie's side, and seizing Dick by the other arm, soon had him up on to the bank.
A wretched-looking object was Dick as he sat up and gazed round about him. His wet clothes clung tightly to his benumbed limbs; his teeth chattered with cold and fright; water dripped from his hair; and his face and knuckles were a mass of cuts and bruises, from their recent acquaintance with Bill's fists.
"You had better get home as fast as you can," advised Hal.
But Dick had caught sight of Bill, whom in his anxiety to get safely on terra firma he had not recognised.
"I'll give him a taste of it first," he muttered between his teeth.
"Better go home and get some gruel," was Bill's contemptuous rejoinder. "Golly how your teeth clack!"
This taunt put the last limit to endurance. The blood rushed to Dick's face, and his fists clenched; then to his feet, he flew at Bill.
But before he could get at him, Hal had guessed how matters stood, and raised one crutch between them; and the two antagonists stood glowering at each other across this forbidding barrier.
Bill burst out laughing; but Hal quickly put his crutch to the ground and swung himself between them. "Look here," said he, "nobody ever thinks of fighting before a girl; besides, when a fellow has just escaped from drowning, he ought to have something else to think of; and so ought you," he added, turning round on Bill.
"He might ha' been in t' other world by now," jeered Bill, with an attempt at drollery.
But Hal turned round on him with dignified reproof. "A boy who has just seen a life saved ought to know better than to mock," said he. "It's a shame," he added, looking from one to another with a pained expression, "when boys who have both done wrong want to tear each other to pieces for it. They ought to be too much ashamed. So get home both of you, and let us have no more such unchristian behaviour."
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At this point in the young Squire's discourse, Blazer, probably considering that he had not received due notice for his deed of valour, began to growl and whine. The consciences of both boys being somewhat overloaded, however, they interpreted his remarks as referring to themselves; and not desiring to provoke him further, they dropped their hostile attitude.
Bill was the first to make a move.
"You ought to shake hands," said Hal, as he turned to slink off.
But Bill's magnanimity was not capable of rising to this degree; and he felt as if he was being quite as generous as any one could reasonably expect in allowing poor dripping Dick to slip through his fingers in this easy way.
Hal stood gazing after Dick's retreating figure, as he ran off home at the top of his speed. "It's a pity that boys don't care more about being like Jesus Christ," observed he. "Of course, it's a sort of thing that takes a lot of trying, and boys naturally don't like trouble. They like play a good deal better. But then they ought to consider that they won't have to play when they're men; and what sort of men will they make, if they don't choose a good copy? As to it's being hard to imitate such a grand example as Jesus Christ—well! It isn't as if you'd got it all to do by yourself. There's the Holy Spirit, you know, who is promised in the Bible to all those who want to get along well."
Having delivered himself of these originally expressed sentiments, Hal also set forward; Maggie, with a thoughtful expression on her brow, walking by his side, and Blazer trotting on in front.
"Girls don't care about it either," said she presently.
"And that," added Hal, "is why there are so many bad men and women in the world. I should like it, when I'm Squire, if all the people on my estate were Christians—real ones, you know; not shams. You'd see the difference! It would entirely do away with policemen and gaols, and all that sort of thing."
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REVENGE.
ALL this while the Squire had been waiting for Dick in vain. At length, his usual luncheon-time being nearly half an hour past, he gave up, and set off down the hill, still thinking that he might meet him by the way; but desiring Mrs. Crozier, if such should not prove the case, to send Dick up to the Manor House that afternoon.
This, however, Mrs. Crozier had no chance of doing. Hurrying up the fields from the riverbank, it had occurred to Dick that it would be more prudent to dry his clothes before going home; so, taking a short cut across the grass to the back of the Manor Farm, he made his way to a haystack he knew of, which had been partly cut away on the sunny side. Here, stripping off his garments, and spreading them out in the sun, he covered himself up with the loose, warm hay, to wait and think over the story by which he would account for his absence from dinner, and his battered face.
Meanwhile Hal, hearing the church clock strike half-past one, had left Maggie to take Blazer home, and had struck across the fields and past the farm. Hot and flushed with hurrying, he arrived at the lodge gate just as the Squire came in sight.
Hal pulled up to wait for him, glad of breathing space.
The Squire was walking briskly. "We shall deserve a scolding for keeping lunch waiting," said he as he came up. "How come you to be late too?—And what have you done with the other boys? By the by, have you seen anything of Dick Crozier?"
"That's what made me late," answered Hal, guessing that his grandfather must have met Dick in his deplorable condition. "He had enough of his ducking, I should think."
The Squire stared. "Enough of what?"
"But you met him?" said Hal.
"Not a bit of it," returned the Squire. "I've been waiting this hour or more in Mrs. Crozier's parlour to lecture him."
Then Hal told his tale.
Bill also had heard half-past one go, and had suddenly recollected that he was on a promise of good behaviour. Now, he was sorely perplexed what to do. It was clear enough that his behaviour was not exactly good; but how to tell his story to his own credit, or, in fact, to get believed at all, Bill was entirely at a loss. So, hungry as he was, he did what cowards always do—kept out of it, and went wandering about the fields behind the farm.
"I don't see much in Bill's fine promises," remarked his mother, as her husband set foot on the threshold; "for all the Squire made himself surety for the boy. He ought to ha' been in this hour ago; and I ha'n't set eyes on him since nine o'clock, when he went down to school."
"'Spare the rod and spoil the child,'" quoted Mumby, sitting down heavily in his accustomed corner by the chimney-piece. "I wouldn't ha' let him off so easy for anybody else; but if the worst comes to the worst, why, I must reckon up wi' him, for all the Squires in the world. A father's got his dooty to his boy to think of first; and I ain't agoin' to shirk mine, not for all the firmament." After which paternal speech, he fell to work in silence on the steaming lump of steak pudding which his wife served out to him.
"Now, wife," said he, as he pushed his plate back and got up, "when Bill turns up, you don't give him a scrap o' this, d'ye mind? Dinner-time's when I come in, and, if he ain't ready for his'n then, why, he can go without, or else make shift to fill himself with bread." And having lighted his pipe, he went out again.
But Bill, having once given way to his cowardly fears, grew less and less brave about showing his face at home, and, as he was getting dreadfully famished, he began to wonder how he could get a meal. He thought of the gap in the hedge; but that was almost within sight of home, and the men would be just returning to work. Besides, Bill had had enough of stealing eggs. But it struck him that he might find some small birds' eggs to suck. At the bottom of the field in the hedge which bounded it from the orchard were some trees of which the blackbirds were particularly fond; and to these Bill now directed his steps, in hopes that he might find something to stay his hunger.
He was unusually lucky too. The first nest which he found contained four or five fledglings; but the second and the third had each five eggs in it, all of which he sucked.
"Better than nothing," said Bill to himself, as he threw the last shell down, and prepared to descend the trunk again. "It'd take a lot o' them to make up a goose's egg, though."
But in moving on to the next group of trees, Bill passed the haystack, and, casting a look round, to see that no one was about, whom should he discover but his old enemy, lying fast asleep in the hay, his clothes spread out around him on the grass to dry?
Once out of his wet garments, and snugly covered up, with the hot May sun shining down upon him, Dick had soon become so helplessly drowsy, that before the lapse of many minutes, he had become oblivious to everything, and was soundly sleeping off the effects of his cold plunge.
Bill stood still a moment in sheer amazement; then he tiptoed nearer, with his neck outstretched, laughing to himself, to think how completely luck had placed Dick in his power. A moment more, and he had darted forward, gathered up the clothes, and, as swiftly as caution would allow, had sped up the ladder with them.
"Now you're done, my fine fellow, or my name ain't Bill!" said he to himself, as he lodged his bundle, and took up his position at the top of the ladder, where the thatched slant was cut away. "Let's see how you'll look running home without your clothes!"
But an hour passed, and Dick did not rouse.
At first Bill had forgotten his hunger; now he began to cast longing looks at the branches of the trees beyond the stack. It was already seven or eight hours since he breakfasted; and he was beginning to find revenge rather painful.
Another half-hour went by.
Bill's patience was nearly exhausted, but Dick was still sound asleep, entirely unconscious of the trick that had been played him.
"I wonder," exclaimed Bill, "how long he's wound up for!"
But the idea of Dick's awakening only suggested other difficulties; for the longer Bill put off going home, the less pleasant he found the prospect of having to face it out in the end. It would certainly make ten times worse of it, if this should come out. Perhaps, on the whole, it would be better to descend at once, and leave Dick to make the discovery of his loss alone; but Bill somehow could not give up the fun.
"Let's rouse him up," said he at length; and pulling out some of the osier switches with which the thatch was pegged, he broke them into bits, and commenced pelting at Dick's upturned face. The first half-dozen missed, but presently one hit the mark. Dick stirred in his sleep, and turned over on his back, baring one arm and poking one foot up through the hay.
Bill chuckled, and sent another missile straight for his face. This time it missed; but the next hit hard, right in the centre of his forehead. Dick's eyes opened, then dropped to again, and he turned over on his other side. Bill aimed again, and hit him in the ear. This time, up went one of Dick's hands to rub the place, and he awoke outright.
First of all, he stared round in a bewildered sort of way, as if unable to make out his surroundings; then he examined his bare arm, and pushed the hay back from his chest, as if to remind himself that he was without garments. Finally he sat upright, the dry covering falling back from his arms and shoulders.
Now was Bill's time of triumph. Feasting on Dick's look of utter dismay, he no longer even felt his hunger. The very thought of Dick's having to get from the farm to the top of the hill beyond the Manor House without a rag to his back, was ample reward for all his waiting and fasting. Bill's revenge was so delicious to the taste, that it was all he could do to restrain his chuckles of delight. But Bill was not going to spoil the fun. By a strong effort of self-control, he mastered his merriment, and sat still to watch what course his unfortunate victim would adopt.
Whilst Dick had been snugly rolled up in the hay, the Manor House boys and their cousins, not satisfied with their morning's game at hare and hounds, had been for a long walk round in the opposite direction; and just as Dick sat up, hardly able to believe his eyes, yet guessing who had played him the trick, and wondering what in the world he was to do, up they came along the favourite pathway from the riverbank across the fields.
Bill from the top of the stack not only heard, but saw them trooping merrily along—Hal, on his crutches in the midst, keeping up bravely with the rest. Dick, also, from the shelter of the stack, heard the sound of their gay laughter, as they chattered by the way; and it just flashed across his mind that here was an opportunity to get helped out of his awkward predicament. Only the situation was so utterly ridiculous, that natural pride made him shrink from exposure. He was still hesitating, unable to make up his mind whether to call to them or to wait till dark should lend a friendly cloak to flight, when he heard Sigismund shout, "Who'll climb a haystack?"
Will took up the challenge, and off they raced across the grass, Hal following at his quickest.
Will and Sigismund were first at the stack. They had scarcely reached it, however, when there was a grand outcry, and a tremendous explosion of laughter; for there, bolt upright, and stark naked to the waist, sat Dick Crozier, with the most comical look of helplessness upon his face.
"Hullo!" exclaimed Will.
"Whatever are you up to?" cried Sigismund.
"A leaf out of Robinson Crusoe," yelled one of the cousins, holding his sides; "a naked savage!"
"A what?" shouted Hal, putting on all the speed he could command.
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Dick had turned red all over.
"He's taking a sun bath," jeered Will.
"They say it's very salutary," added one of the others, his eyes running over with merriment.
"Don't let the police catch you at it, that's all," said another, as Dick tried to scrape the hay together round him.
Sigismund had turned back towards Hal, who by this time was nearly at the spot. "It's Dick Crozier," called he.
"Dick Crozier!" echoed Hal. "What's the matter?"
The next instant, however, the question answered itself, and for a brief space Hal was at a loss whether to laugh or look serious.
"But where are your clothes?" asked he at length, in a tone of incredulity.
"Goodness knows," answered Dick snappishly, "Gone."
"But how did you get out of them?" asked Hal further.
"Took 'em off," said Dick in a surly voice.
"Queer place to choose," put in Will.
"But what have you done with them?" asked Hal, utterly at a loss.
"Nothing!" exclaimed Dick indignantly. "They're gone."
"Gone?"
"Can't you understand!" broke out Dick, with injured dignity most ludicrous to behold. "Some one's taken 'em."
The others roared with laughter anew; but the whole thing suddenly flashed upon Hal. Dick, afraid to go home, had conceived the idea of drying his clothes in the sun; and Bill, finding him there asleep, had played him this waggish but shameful trick.
Hal didn't laugh.
"Run for some clothes, one of you," ordered he; "to the cottages will be quickest. Bill shall answer for this—the mean scoundrel!" added he, in a tone of voice that changed the expression of that youth's face in a twinkling, and made the others look in awe at Hal.
Sigismund, always ready to do his elder brother's bidding, dashed off, followed by one of his cousins; but at that instant, Will, recollecting what they had come for, glanced upward, and caught sight of Bill.
"Hullo!" cried he. "There he is! Look! Look! Up there!"
All eyes were instantly directed to the top of the stack. But Bill, suddenly arriving at the determination that it would be more prudent to make off, had scrambled to the ridge, and over; and all of him except his hands had disappeared.
"Why! He's got the clothes up there!" exclaimed one of the cousins, catching sight of the bundle.
"I'm going up," said Will, setting foot on the ladder.
"Stop, stop!" cried Hal, afraid of a tussle at such a height from the ground, and half hoping that some one would come back from the cottages with Sigismund, and see fair play. "Let be till Sidge and Watt come back."
But Bill had caught Will's words like a shot, and, determined upon escape at all costs, had let go the ridge. Almost the same instant they heard a heavy thud upon the ground.
"What was that?" cried Will and the two cousins in a breath.
Hal turned white.
"He has never jumped it?" cried he.
Not a sound came from the other side of the stack; but there was scarcely a doubt as to what had happened. For a moment none of them dared stir; then Hal put one crutch forward, and nerved himself for the awful possibility, praying as he went,—"God grant he isn't dead!"
On the grass, a yard or so from the foot of the stack, lay Bill, white as a sheet. At first sight Hal uttered a cry of horror, thinking that his worst fears were realized. But at the sound of his voice Bill's eyes opened.
"My leg!" moaned he. "My leg!"
The right leg was doubled backwards underneath him, broken at the thigh.
"Here!" shouted Hal. "Help! Where are you all? Won't anybody lend a hand?"
The others had followed him, however, and were closer than he knew of. Half-a-dozen hands were instantly stretched out; Bill was quickly lifted, and the injured limb straightened.
"Bring him round on to the hay," directed Hal. "He'll lie easier there, whilst you go for help."
So Bill was carried round to where Dick sat—now shivering with terror and alarm.
"He'll want a stretcher," said Hal next. "You three can't carry him; and I should think it will be a case for the Infirmary."
The three boys declared themselves quite equal to the task of carrying Bill, and were anxious to start at once. But as they were in the midst of a warm debate with Hal, who stood out for the superior merits of a stretcher, the sound of footsteps announced the return of Sigismund and Watt.
"Grandfather is behind," shouted Sigismund triumphantly, as he advanced. "Now we shall see fair play."
The Squire had been up the hill to Mrs. Crozier's again, after hearing Hal's account of Dick's ducking; and perplexed at finding him still absent, had proceeded to Mrs. Mumby's cottage, to hear what Bill had to tell on the subject. Learning from Sigismund the fresh turn of affairs, he now at once followed to the scene of action, Mrs. Mumby hurrying after, vowing punishment on Bill for this fresh escapade, and carrying his Sunday suit for Dick.
Seeing Mrs. Mumby, Hal, with a quick thought for her mother's heart, at once started forward.
"Don't be frightened," called he, as he swung himself towards her; "it's only his leg. Bill went and tried to jump down from the top, and he has broken his thigh."
Of course, as neither Mrs. Mumby nor the Squire knew anything about the "king o' the haystack" position which Bill had for the last three hours enjoyed, further explanation was called for. But Hal soon put them in possession of the principal facts—how Will had caught sight of the young rascal, and started to go up after him; and how Bill, resolved not to be caught, had left his hold and slidden down with a rush.
In another minute, Will and Sigismund were racing to the farmyard, with the Squire's orders that a cart be brought round at once, to convey Bill to the Infirmary.
"Well, young man," said the Squire, as he stood over Bill awaiting their return, "I should think that you have had lessons enough by this time. For, remember, this all comes of getting through a hedge to steal goose eggs."
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IN MEMORY OF FARMER BLUFF.
A FEW hours later, Bill had made acquaintance with one of the narrow beds in the accident ward of the Riverbridge Infirmary, where—after going through the exhausting process of having his clothes removed, and his leg put in splints—he fell asleep and dreamt all sorts of extraordinary things. Amongst others, that the Squire had caught him stealing eggs in the hay, and had him nailed out on a flat board—like the stoats on the lower boarding of the barn; and that when he tried to get away, Farmer Bluff's dog came and barked at him. Then the dog suddenly changed into a woman with a snow-cloud on her head, who clapped ice on his forehead, to make him forget for a little while. This imaginary ice being none other than the hand of the kind-hearted night nurse, under the touch of whose cool palm Bill from time to time forgot his feverish struggles to toss about. And so the morning dawned; the first of forty days, or more, that the Bill would have to spend upon that narrow bed.
In the meantime, Dick, arrayed in Bill's Sunday suit, and escorted by the Squire, had gone off up the hill, leaving his half-dry clothes in Mrs. Mumby's charge.
Arrived at home, he was at once put to bed between blankets, and made to swallow a large basinful of hot gruel, which would have been unpalatable enough, had he not been so long fasting that anything of the nature of food was welcome.
Between the gruel and the blankets, he was soon perspiring violently, and in a sound sleep, from which he did not rouse until long after Bill—in accordance with the early rule of the Infirmary—had breakfasted. Then, feeling very much dispirited and out of sorts, and looking a wretched object, with his bruised and battered face and fists, he dressed and came downstairs, more thankful than words can describe, to find his father already gone, and as grateful for the message he had left behind, excusing him from school for the day, on condition that he did not stir outside the house.
Dick, as may readily be imagined, willingly accepted the condition, and remained at home, answering his mother's numerous questions, and enduring her reproaches as stoically as he could; and looking forward with great misgivings to the lecture which, he knew only too well, he could not hope to escape, on his father's return from business.
Next morning, he went back to school as usual, and after several days of quizzing and jeering on the part of his schoolmates, things fell back into their ordinary course. By degrees the cuts and bruises disappeared; and but for two things Dick might perhaps have soon succeeded in forgetting the whole occurrence—at any rate until Bill's discharge from the Infirmary brought him home, with one leg a full inch shorter than the other, to limp for life—a perpetual reminder of the whole disgraceful affair.
Meanwhile, Dick had been forced to abide by the harsh, though just words with which his father had concluded his lecture that evening.
"You pride yourself on common sense," said Mr. Crozier, "and have on more than one occasion rebelled against seeing by the light of my maturer wisdom. Common sense should have taught you that no person, young or old, can violate the laws of God, but they are sure to reap due punishment. Bill has learnt the wholesome truth in a manner that I hope he will not easily forget. It will be my duty to make sure that you remember too. I had intended taking you on the river this coming Bank Holiday, to give you your first lesson in rowing. But since you have so persistently and dishonourably disregarded my injunctions with regard to it, I shall put off doing so another year, or until I find that you have learnt obedience."
As time went on, Dick found this decision of his father's harder than he had even thought; for several of his schoolmates had boats upon the river, and every invitation to their water-parties had to be refused.
The hardest time of all was when Hal invited him to his birthday picnic.
Hal's birthday was always the closing fête of the summer holidays; and this year the Squire had planned an excursion to some picturesque old ruins, eight or ten miles up stream. A large pleasure-boat had been hired, with men to tow or row, as convenience required; and there were grand preparations to be undertaken in the Manor House kitchen for the rural spread. A number of cousins, boys and girls, were to join them, and Hal—as hero of the day—was invested with carte blanche to invite as many as the boat would accommodate.
"Ask just whom you please," the Squire said to him, knowing that he might rely on Hal's good taste. "The more the merrier, so long as we can see our water-mark. I want your picnic to be a grand success."
Hal instantly thought of Dick.
Now, it was not surprising that Dick, heartily ashamed of the figure he had cut on the unfortunate afternoon of Bill's accident, should have so carefully avoided Hal ever since, that they had not once so much as exchanged nods. The fact was, Dick hardly thought that Hal would care to speak to him again. But Hal, much as he disapproved of Dick's conduct, was not the sort of boy to throw him up on that account; and guessing that shame was most probably Dick's chief reason for holding aloof, he was determined to do his utmost towards bringing about a correct understanding. And here was his opportunity.
The first thing was to waylay Dick. This was not difficult. Hal had only to watch at the plantation palings till he saw Dick coming down the hill; then lay in wait inside the gate till just as he came up, and pop out on him before he had a chance to run.
Dick looked "caught," and tried to get away; but Hal was not to be done in that fashion. He button-holed him without ado, and stated his business.
Dick stammered an excuse; but Hal saw, by the blank look on his face, that there was something behind it. A little pressing brought it out.
"And it's no go," said Dick regretfully. "You might as well waste your strength trying to move a mountain as my father when his mind is made up."
Hal offered to see what he could do to soften Mr. Crozier's heart; but Dick shook his head.
"It's no go," repeated he; "and I shall have to stay away."
So all that glorious September day Dick spent in vain regrets that but for his own folly, he might have been one of Hal's merry birthday party.
But as the autumn days fell on the woods, a shadow settled on the cottage by the gate, where Farmer Bluff was drawing towards his death. Death is not always dark. The end of life is sometimes like a glorious sunset, when the light of day sinks in triumphant promise of another dawn. But Farmer Bluff had sinned, and had never made the Bible promises his own.
Hal often went to sit beside his bed.
"The others play as well without me," he would say. "I'm not much good in games, you see; and I would rather come and help you bear your pain."
"It's not so much the pain," the farmer said to him one day. "I'd go on bearing that. But they tell me that I'm going fast; and I can't see where. I've never been a praying man; and now it's dark. 'Prepare to meet thy God,' they say. How can a man prepare?—What can I do?—I've lost my right to think of ever getting Him to listen to my prayers; and I must go before His judgment-seat with all my sins upon my back."
Hal was silent.
"It's very sad," said he presently; "because, you see, you've wasted all the best part of your life. And I should think a man wouldn't like to have to go to God and ask to be taken into heaven, when he'd done so badly all along. Of course, there was the prodigal, who squandered all his father gave him so disgracefully; but you see, he was a young man, and he went back to work again as soon as the feast was over. The Bible doesn't say so; but it seems to me he'd work like two, whenever he remembered how his father ran to meet him, open-armed. You're more like the man who didn't come to work until the eleventh hour," added Hal thoughtfully.
Farmer Bluff asked to have the passage read to him.
"He got his penny just the same as all the rest, you see," said Hal, when he had finished it.
But the sick man shook his head.
"That's not like me," he said. "He worked one hour. I'm past that. I'm good for nothing; I've destroyed myself."
And Hal went away grieved; for he felt the words were just. And yet—although he knew that God was ready to receive all those who turn to Him through Christ—he could not think of how to tell him so.
But the following Sunday, as he sat beside the Squire in the high-backed Manor pew, his crutches either side of him, the "how" was made quite plain.
"This is the work of God," the vicar read, "that ye believe on Him whom God hath sent."
Will and Sigismund were very busy watching a wasp that had strayed in at one of the windows, and was making up its mind to settle on the velvet hangings of the pew. They glanced at Hal, but his thoughts were too much occupied with Farmer Bluff to notice any of their signs.
All at once he seemed to see how it is faith in Christ alone that gives the sinner peace, when looking back repentant on a misspent life.
He seemed to see, too, how that "faith" can be called "work," since "to be" alone enables man "to do."
"I've got it, Farmer Bluff!" he cried, next time he went up to his room. "Believe in Jesus Christ,—that is 'the work of God;' and you can do that lying here. It's only to be sorry, and to trust in Christ, who died for us." And sitting down by him, he found the verse and read it out.
"And I think," he added, "that perhaps in heaven God will give you something to do for Him, to make amends for what you left undone down here."
The dying man lay still for some minutes; then a light broke over his face, and he repeated,—"Only to be sorry—He knows I'm truly sorry—and to trust in Christ—who died for me. That's all 'the work of God.'"
And so, just when the bitter punishment of all his sins was near at hand, the Saviour's sacrifice brought peace and light; and Farmer Bluff began the life that might have been so full of fruit in this world and the next, had he but commenced it earlier.
But next time Hal came upstairs to see him, he said he had been thinking there was one thing he could do. "I could warn some other sinner what an awful grief it is to go down to the grave with nothing but a wasted life," said he; "and maybe they might listen to a man who hasn't many days to live."
So Hal brought Dick and Bill to see the dying man; and Farmer Bluff talked to them in a way that neither of the boys ever forgot.
"There's one thing more I want to do before I die," said Farmer Bluff to Hal, when they were gone. "I feel the end is coming fast; another day I mayn't have strength. That mug. It's on the chest of drawers. Bring it me, will you?"
Hal fetched the silver mug, and brought it to the bed.
The old man took it in his hands and turned it over many times.
"I want to give it to you," he said at length; "because I'd like it melted down. I wouldn't like to put the blame of all my folly on this silver mug; because the evil was inside me, in my evil heart, that nothing save the grace of God could change. But it seems like part of the old life. It stood there by my side and tempted me; and I should like to feel that when my body's underneath the grass, the old life is all done away. No matter what you make of it, so you promise me to have it melted down."
"I promise," answered Hal.
And the farmer put the mug into his hand.
"Then there's Grip and Blazer," continued Farmer Bluff. "I've given Grip to Dobson there, next door; but Maggie and her mother very likely mayn't stay here, and Blazer is very much attached to you. I'd like to know he'll have a master when I'm gone."
"And why not have the silver made into a collar for him?" cried Hal suddenly. "And he shall wear the mug upon his neck, in memory of you."
So it was agreed; and Hal went home.
Hal never saw his old friend any more alive. Going home through heavy rain that afternoon, he caught a chill that forced him to stay indoors for several days; and one morning, before the week was out, a message came to say that at the break of dawn, poor Farmer Bluff's spirit had departed to its rest.
The cottage by the wood was soon untenanted again. Maggie, through the Squire's interest, was got into an orphan school, where she soon gave promise of a bright and useful womanhood; and Mrs. Rust obtained a responsible place as housekeeper, where she went on saving up whatever she could spare, to lay by with the little sum of money left her by her brother at his death; so that when old age crept on she might not be a burden on her child.
Meanwhile, from the day when Blazer became Hal's property, the young Squire was seldom seen abroad without his dog; and on his neck, Blazer always wore a massive silver collar, bearing on one side his name and the four words—"Who saved two lives;" and on the other, the inscription—"In memory of his old master, Farmer Bluff."
Thus reminded what a solemn charge is God's great gift of life, Hal went onward towards the time when his aged grandfather must follow Farmer Bluff, and leave the Manor in his hands.
There is little hope that he will ever be robust enough to lead the steeplechase, or ride out in the morning mist behind the hounds. Probably he will never learn to do without his crutches, and will never be "a stalwart Englishman" to look upon. But his heart is brave and true; and these are things he does not much regret. His strong determination is to do his best in hunting out the sin and godlessness that work such havoc in the lives of men; and—God helping him—to be the foremost in the race that has the throne of heaven for its aim.
But that time, he hopes, is still some years ahead.
Meanwhile, he strives to gather wisdom as he grows; and since his copy—as he told Dick Crozier—is the perfect God-man, Jesus Christ, there is no doubt that he will grow to be a useful, honoured man, and at last receive the incorruptible crown.
THE END.
PRINTED BY MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED, EDINBURGH.