*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74082 ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: THE GOOSE DUCKED HER HEAD, OPENED HER WINGS,
 AND RUSHED FORWARD WITH A SCREAM.]



                             FARMER BLUFF'S

                                DOG BLAZER

                                    OR

                          AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR


                                   BY

                           FLORENCE E. BURCH

             AUTHOR OF "JOSH JOBSON," "RAGGED SIMON," ETC.



                   _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY GORDON BROWNE_



                                 LONDON
                      THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
             56 PATERNOSTER ROW AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD



[Illustration]

                               CONTENTS.

CHAP.

    I. IN SEARCH OF A COMPANION

   II. GRIP AND BLAZER

  III. FARMER BLUFF

   IV. THE SQUIRE'S GRANDSONS

    V. "WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT"

   VI. THE YOUNG SQUIRE

  VII. THE SHORTEST CUT

 VIII. "CONSCIENCE MAKES COWARDS OF US ALL"

   IX. RENEWING ACQUAINTANCE

    X. THE INQUEST

   XI. AN ARTIST-DETECTIVE

  XII. BILL'S FUTURE

 XIII. THE YOUNG SQUIRE ASSUMES A NEW CHARACTER

  XIV. THE VERY ONE

   XV. UNDER SENTENCE

  XVI. A RUNAWAY'S STORY

 XVII. LOOSE AGAIN

XVIII. TO THE RESCUE

  XIX. REVENGE

   XX. IN MEMORY OF FARMER BLUFF



[Illustration]

                    FARMER BLUFF'S DOG BLAZER.

CHAPTER I.

IN SEARCH OF A COMPANION.

"I CAN'T see why I shouldn't use my own common sense," said Dick
Crozier to himself one fine morning, as he sauntered along the lane.
"What else was it given to me for, I should like to know?"

It was a holiday, and Dick had a mind to enjoy himself. Now it happened
that Dick's idea of enjoyment on this particular morning did not quite
agree with his father's. Before leaving home, Mr. Crozier had given him
particular injunctions not to extend his walk beyond the common, and
not to go near the river.

"Another time," said he, "I shall have leisure to teach you how to
manage a boat. Then I shall not be afraid to trust you; but until then
I would rather you kept away."

Dick ventured to argue the point. "Another time," he mightn't have a
holiday. His parents had only recently removed into the neighbourhood;
and he felt pretty certain that his father would put him to school as
soon as ever they got settled in the new place.

"No time like the present," said Dick to himself, as he tried to
shake his father's determination. "To-day is my own; no knowing whose
to-morrow may be."

But when a wise father has really made up his mind, his determination
is not to be shaken.

"You must be content to let me judge what is best for the present,"
said Mr. Crozier. "When you are older, you will see that I was right."

So Dick had to submit—outwardly, at any rate; and as soon as he had
watched his father disappear round the corner towards the railway, away
he walked in the opposite direction, grumbling to himself as he went.

It was not a morning for grumbling. The time of year was the end of
March. The wind, having made the discovery that all its roar and
bluster could not stop the trees and flowers from coming out to meet
the spring, had gone to sleep, and left them to enjoy the sunshine till
the April showers came on. Birds were singing blithely on the boughs,
and even a few humble-bees were to be seen riding through the air with
an important buzz, as if they felt that they had got things their own
way at last; whilst their working relatives flew hither and thither in
quest of honey, with a sharp-toned hum that plainly said—"We must be
busy."

Dick heard them, and stopped grumbling. It was too bad to be in an
ill-humour whilst everything else—from the kingcups in the hedge to the
larks in the sky—was so full of enjoyment. It was not even as if all
the ill-humour in the world could alter what his father had said. So
he just gave one or two cuts at the hedge with the stick in his hand
as a final protest, and began to whistle. A few minutes later he was
climbing along a grassy bank, holding by the wooden palings at the top.

There was a plantation on the other side of these palings, and just
then a clock in a little tower, with a golden weathercock, struck nine.
Dick had heard his father speak of this house as the residence of the
Lord of the Manor, so he stopped to have a peep at it through the trees.

It was a large, white stone building, with balconies to the upper
windows, supported on twisted pillars, so as to form a shady verandah
in front of the lower rooms. A smooth lawn, green as emerald and soft
as velvet, sloped up to the gravelled terrace; and behind the house,
the grass slanted away to an iron hurdle-fence, within which deer were
grazing. Beyond was a little copse, where pines and Scotch firs showed
dark against the pale green mist of leaf-buds on the other trees. A
gate leading into this copse was painted red; and Dick now noticed that
all the gates and railings about the place were of the same unusual
colour—which formed a very pretty contrast with the grass.

As he clung to the fence, making these observations, a French window at
one end of the verandah opened, and three boys trooped out, followed
by a lady, whom Dick took to be their mother. She was young, and
very beautiful—or so Dick thought, as she stepped into the sunlight,
shading her eyes with one hand, to watch them off; so beautiful that,
for the moment, his eyes seem riveted. But only for a moment. The boys
no sooner reached the steps than Dick's eyes left her for them. The
foremost two bounded down, three or four steps at a time, leaving the
third one far behind; and Dick now perceived that the poor fellow went
upon crutches, and that upon one sole he wore an iron stand, which
raised it full two inches from the ground, whilst the other barely
reached so low. In spite of this, he was considerably shorter than his
brothers; and Dick immediately concluded that he was the youngest of
the three.

"Poor fellow!" said he to himself. "I shouldn't care to be like that. I
daresay, though, they're good to him,"' he added, as the others pulled
up short and waited for the cripple, who swung himself carefully down,
step by step.

But Dick little guessed how hard it is to "be good" to a boy who has to
go at a snail's pace, when you yourself have the strength to run and
jump. He didn't even notice how the others continually walked a step
ahead, nor how the cripple laboured to keep up with them. Neither did
he guess how tiring it was to get along so fast. Presently, however,
something attracted the attention of the three boys—an early butterfly
it must have been. The cripple saw it first, and nodded towards it, and
forthwith off the others raced, and left him resting on his crutches
watching them. Then Dick understood a little more clearly how hard it
was for him; for his brothers entirely forgot him in their wild, mad
chase, and he was left alone.

He followed them a minute with his eyes, then turned and looked towards
the terrace; but his mother was not even there to wave her hand. She
had gone in.

It came into Dick's head to wonder whether the poor fellow could see
him there above the fence. He had half a mind to whistle. Dick—with
nothing else to do—could very well spare time for half an hour's chat
to cheer his loneliness. But just then he remembered who this cripple
was, and how presumptuous it might be thought to dream of showing pity
for a son of the great man to whom all the land about belonged. And as
the other boys, panting and puffing, cap in hand, returned just then,
the question was decided once for all. Dick watched them out of sight
behind the avenue of trees that led to the lodge, then he jumped down
from the bank and went his way, turning now and then to see if they
were following.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

GRIP AND BLAZER.

A LITTLE further on, the road emerged upon a green; and at the back
of this green there was a farm. The house stood back behind the yard,
which was hidden from view by tall bushes; and half inside the yard,
half outside upon the green, was a pond, where ducks were swimming
about in search of dainty bits.

This was the Manor Farm. The man who held it was the Squire's bailiff,
Dick had heard his father say. He went up to the gate to look, rather
wondering what sort of a thing it was to be bailiff to so great a man,
and whether he had any boys.

A shaggy-looking dog, dozing in the sun before his kennel, sprang to
his feet with a loud bark as Dick approached, rattling his chain and
growling, as if to warn him not to come too near. Finding Dick paid no
heed, he jumped up on his kennel and set, up barking so vociferously
that another dog behind the house took up the cause. Next minute a
servant, wondering what could be amiss, and probably suspecting tramps,
opened a side door and came round the corner of the house to look. At
the same instant, a man with a pitchfork in his hand appeared from the
other corner of the house.

"Hey! Grip, old boy," called he; "what's up? You'll upset the firmament
with your row."

Exactly what he meant by this it would be hard to say. He had caught
the word up from the Bible, as something made "in the beginning," and
therefore very "firm;" so probably it seemed to him the most that any
one could do in the upsetting line.

Anyhow, the dog seemed to understand the rebuke. He gave one or two
more barks, then jumped down off his kennel with an injured air; and:
his colleague of the back premises, finding he was pacified, gave in
too, and so the hubbub ceased.

"What was up wi' him?" said the man, coming a pace or two nearer, and
resting on his pitchfork. "There's now't amiss, so fur's I can see."
For Dick had left the gate, and gone to watch the ducks.

The servant shook her head. "Like his master," returned she; "always
kicking up a fuss for nothing in the world. Some folks seem as if they
can't be happy else; and quadrupeds is much the same, I s'pose."

"Belike," answered the man, with a laugh. "But if that's so, why,
Blazer's the master's dog! My word! I wouldn't like to try his fangs;
he'd tear the firmament to shreds."

With this characteristic remark, he shouldered his fork, and, turning
on his heel, went back to his work in the rick-yard.

The servant stood a minute at the door looking about her; then she,
too, turned and went inside, shutting to the door, but throwing up the
window, as if this taste of sunshine had made her long for the free air.

Meanwhile Dick had reached the other gate; for the farmyard had an
entrance at each side of the pond, so that carts could come in either
way. Here he stopped again; but this time Grip took no notice beyond
raising his nose off his paws a second or two and blinking, to show
that he was awake; then he composed himself again, or pretended to—just
to give the enemy a chance of showing his weak side. But Dick was not
to be deceived that way, nor had he any thoughts of invading Master
Grip's territory.

After standing still a few minutes, taking observations of the
picturesque old house, with its latticed windows and its long,
red-tiled, gabled roof, he was just about to go his way, when he was
suddenly startled by a most unearthly whoop.

Before he had time to look round, a boy about his own size came full
tear into the road a yard or two ahead. "Hullo!" cried he, perceiving
Dick.

"Hullo!" responded Dick.

Then they stared at one another.

"Who are you?" asked Dick.

The other burst out laughing. "Who are you?" retorted he.

"Oh! It doesn't matter," answered Dick, a trifle proudly; "only—my
father has just moved into the neighbourhood, and I suppose I shall
have to get to know the boys; so I thought I might as well begin with
you."

The other looked him over well from head to foot. Dick's father was a
gentleman, and Dick was dressed accordingly. The other's father was a
labourer upon the Manor Farm.

"My name's Dick Crozier," added Dick.

"And mine is Bill the Kicker," returned his new acquaintance.

"That is, your nickname," added Dick.

"Call it what you like; that's all the name I want," said Bill the
Kicker in such a final manner that Dick said no more.

"Where do you live?" next asked he.

"Up yonder," answered Bill the Kicker, pointing backward with his
thumb. "My father works for Farmer Bluff."

"And mine goes up to town every morning," rejoined Dick. "We live
beyond the Manor House, up the hill."

This interchange of confidences was a pretty good basis for an
acquaintance, and the two boys were soon engaged in a lively
conversation.

"There's a hornets' nest up there," said Bill presently, jerking his
thumb in the direction of the field. "I see one goin' in just now.
I mean to sell it to the Squire's grandsons," added he, nodding to
himself.

"What for?" asked Dick, who was a town-bred boy.

"For sport, of course," answered Bill promptly. "Squires always go in
for sport. I reckon we shall have a game."

"Hornets are dangerous, aren't they?" said Dick doubtfully.

"It don't do to get stung," returned Bill; "but then you don't if you
can help; and that's what makes the sport. I wonder," added Bill the
Kicker, struck with an original thought, "who'd care to storm a flies'
nest!—Supposin' that they made 'em, which they don't. And there again,
you see," he added further, "flies don't make nests, because they
haven't got to keep out of the way—" Which remark contained a wholesome
moral, if he had but possessed the wit to see it.

Knowing nothing of such country matters, Dick naturally felt some
respect for Bill the Kicker, who talked as if he had it all on good
authority.

"Look here," proposed he presently; "tell me when the sport's to be."

Bill shook his head with a doubtful air.

"Why not?" asked Dick.

Bill the Kicker drew his mouth tight, stretching it almost from ear to
ear, and shook his head again.

Dick held out a bait.

"I've got a goodish big-sized boat at home," said he persuasively. "I
mayn't go near the river yet, but so soon as ever I get leave, I'll let
you know."

Bill expressed considerable contempt for the idea of "getting leave;"
however, he went so far as to say that when the sport was all arranged,
he might see fit to make it known to Dick. "It's the Squire's
grandsons, you see," said he importantly. "'Tisn't every one as I could
introduce to them."

Dick rather wondered what it mattered whom Bill introduced, so long as
it was somebody no lower than himself. But he promised to be in the way
as often as he could; and Bill the Kicker, having duly warned him not
to drop a word to any one, went off to find the Squire's grandsons and
"sell the nest."



[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.

FARMER BLUFF.

WHILST Dick was making acquaintance with Bill the Kicker, the Squire's
bailiff, Farmer Bluff, was sitting in his parlour, with his leg upon a
cushion and a pint mug on the table by his side, swearing inwardly—if
not aloud—at the fate which had cursed him with the gout.

Now this fate was none other than the blustering old farmer's own
stupidity; for time after time the doctor had warned him that as long
as he made that mug his boon companion, so long exactly would his enemy
pursue him with its twinging pains.

But Farmer Bluff was obstinate as well as blustering—to every one
except the Squire, of course, in whose presence he was like the latter
end of March—a lion transformed into a lamb. The excuse he made to
himself turned upon the mug, of which he was naturally proud, it being
solid silver, an heirloom that his grandfather had left to him. He
liked to have it on the table by his side; and if upon the table, why,
it must have something in it. And that something must of course be
beer, and must be drunk. And so the stupid fellow's gout grew angrier
year by year, until at length it got so bad that if he did not swear
aloud, it was for no better reason than because nobody was by to hear.

As he sat there by the hearth, looking across his shoulder out of the
window at the bright March sunshine that used to call him up and abroad
at six o'clock, until this gout got hold of him, he heard Grip set up
the furious bark that fetched the servant out to look. Then he heard
Blazer take up the challenge; and shortly afterwards the voices of the
servant and the man fell on his ear.

Now it was a peculiarity of the old bailiff to resent not being able to
hear what passed between other people; so after chafing and fretting
for some minutes, he reached out for the handbell that stood beside the
silver mug, and rang it lustily. Then he took another pull at the mug,
and having poked the fire to a roaring blaze, impatiently awaited the
answer to his summons.

This happened exactly at the moment when the servant threw up the
kitchen window to let in the air.

"Always kicking up a fuss for nothing in the world," said she again,
flouncing back to her washing up, with a strong determination to let
him ring a second time. After a minute or two, however, she let drop
her dish-clout in the tub, and drying her hands on her apron as she
went, hurried off to the parlour.

Farmer Bluff was known to be a bit of a miser, and had few near
relatives to leave his money to; and Elspeth had her eye upon a
handsome legacy.

"He's over sixty-five," she used to tell herself, by way of comfort
when he swore at her; "and gout don't make old bones. I can put up with
it a bit longer, on the chance of being mentioned in his will."

But, as it happened, just as Elspeth reached the parlour, there
was another ring, this time at the outer door; not so lusty as her
master's, though, for all that the bell itself was twice the size.

Filling up a waste space in the hall, there was a cunning china closet,
with a narrow window looking through into the porch. A step or two
aside and one quick glance revealed who stood without. Going swiftly to
the door, Elspeth threw it open with a deferential curtsey. It was the
Squire who had given that modest ring; and she never kept the Squire
waiting, for he always had a civil word, in spite of his high rank.
Then having answered his inquiry as to whether her master was up, she
stepped briskly back towards the parlour.

Farmer Bluff was in the act of ringing his handbell a second time.

"A man might die in a fit, for all the haste you make!" exclaimed he
with an oath, banging down the bell so violently that the clapper
uttered a "twang" of protest. "An indolent, slow-footed hussy!" He was
going on with a regular string of abuse, but just as he was in the
midst of some words that no proper thinking man had any business to lay
his tongue to, the door flew open, and to his great dismay, his eyes
met those of no less a personage than the Lord of the Manor.

Farmer Bluff's tirade came to an abrupt termination, and Elspeth having
announced, "The Squire, sir," withdrew, leaving her master to put the
best face on it.

What with beer, and rage, and shame, the old sinner's countenance was
nearly as red as the live coals in the grate. He made desperate efforts
to rise as the Squire approached, bearing like a man the torture that
would have made him swear like a trooper if Elspeth had been by instead.

The Squire, however, hastened to stop him.

"Keep your seat, Mr. Bluff," said he good-naturedly, as the bailiff
blurted out an apology. "Pray don't put yourself to any pain on my
account. No; not so near the hearth, thank you," as Farmer Bluff tried
to reach a chair. "I'll sit here. The air is mild this morning, and I
can see you've been serving your fire to the same sort of rousing as
you treat your woman servant to."

The old farmer reddened still more, and mumbled something about "your
blood being chilly when you had the gout."

"And you find that swearing makes it circulate," remarked the Squire
sarcastically. "Dependence upon others is a very unfortunate condition
to come to," added he; "and you have apparently a very inattentive
attendant too."

The Squire's caustic tone did not escape Farmer Bluff. He blurted out a
few words about "not so bad," only she needed "keeping up to the mark."

"You've chosen a somewhat unscriptural way of setting about it,"
observed the Squire; "and my experience—the experience of fourscore
years—is that whatever is unscriptural is unprofitable, and altogether
wrong. Therefore, Mr. Bluff, if I were you I should give it up."

Having uttered this straightforward piece of advice, the Squire dropped
the subject, and went on to speak of his bailiff's health.

It was wonderful the contrast there was between the two men. The
Squire, brought up all his lifetime in the midst of luxury—had he
chosen to live softly—had as elastic a tread as many a man of forty,
and looked as hale and hearty as if he had been accustomed to weather
wind and storm out in the fields with his own shepherds. His bailiff,
nearly twenty years his junior, looked bloated and unhealthy, in spite
of his invigorating out-door life about the farm and woods; and half
his days, at least, were spent in this arm-chair, with one foot or the
other upon a cushion.

There was good reason for the difference; there is for most things, if
men only had the sense to find it out. The Squire, from his youth up,
had been temperate, using the good gifts of God wisely, not abusing
them. His bailiff had never got beyond regarding these gifts as the
wages which it was his good fortune to earn from the Squire; and he had
gone to work with the intention of getting the greatest possible amount
of enjoyment out of this little bite off the great man's luxury. Thus,
grasping all, he had come pretty near losing all; for, ask anybody who
has made close acquaintance with gout, and they will tell you that
there is next to no enjoyment in life for those who have made it their
companion.

The moral is,—avoid intemperance, remembering always that beer is
not the only thing that may be abused, and that gout is not the only
punishment; for, sad to say, there are as many sins as there are weeds
in this fair world, and a punishment to each. As the Bible has it—in a
form that no one need forget—"Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he
also reap."

Sow sins, and you shall reap punishment as surely as did Farmer Bluff.

This was the sum and substance of the Squire's thoughts as he sat
down on the window-seat. "I'm thankful I shall go down to my grave
without gout," said he to himself, as he watched the contortions of
his bailiff's features; for it was vain for Farmer Bluff to think of
not making faces. He had put his foot to unusual inconvenience in his
attempts to show respect; and it cost effort enough to refrain from
bellowing aloud at the pain.

"I hoped to find you better than this, Mr. Bluff," began the Squire
after a pause, putting his gold-headed cane between his knees, and
crossing his hands over it. "This has been a long attack."

"It has, sir; a—very long attack."

Farmer Bluff usually hesitated a good deal in talking to the Squire;
otherwise he might have let slip unsuitable expressions, such as he was
in the habit of using to Elspeth.

"The longest you ever had, eh?"

The Squire did not want to be unkind, but he had called in with the
intention of saying something rather disagreeable; and it had got to be
said, in spite of his natural inclination to say pleasant things.

"By far the longest," repeated he.

Farmer Bluff declared himself heartily tired of it, adding in an
injured way that no one knew what suffering was until they had tried
gout.

The Squire shook his head. A man has no right to feel hardly done by
when he deliberately chooses to bring pain upon himself. "I'm heartily
tired of it, too," said he; "and the fact is, Bluff, I'm getting
too far into years to be my own bailiff—and that's what it comes to
nowadays. For these keepers and labourers of yours—well! I've no
doubt you give your orders. A man might give his orders in the other
hemisphere by telegram. But if I didn't go round and see to things for
myself, they would be in a pretty muddle. Why! I was in the saddle
at half-past six this morning to do your work. A glorious morning it
was too; as glorious as God ever made. Time Was when I'd as soon have
been out myself as trouble you—except for the sense that a man with
abundance of this world's goods is bound to broadcast some of his
money amongst dependants. But an octogenarian begins to need a little
indulgence, or he will do very shortly, for the time must come to all
of us, Mr. Bluff."

"Ay, that it must, sir," acquiesced the bailiff meekly, feeling rather
as if his time had come; for he could see pretty plainly what the
Squire was driving at.

"I should not like," continued the old gentleman after a pause, "to
leave the estate out of working gear when I go. It is not as if I left
a grown man in my place. My grandson is such a mere child that I can
hardly hope even to see him attain his majority; and that is what I
came to speak to you about. You have served me many years, Bluff; but
the fact is, you are not what you were, and I feel that I ought to see
a competent man in your place, whilst I myself am still competent."

Farmer Bluff began to whine. Long service deserved indulgence, he
hinted. "A man must take what the Lord sends him," said he.

But the Squire stopped him. "Men often make mistakes about the source
of their misfortunes, Bluff," said he. "I don't believe that your
complaint is often of the Lord's sending."

The bailiff's eyes reverted uncomfortably to the silver mug. He knew
very well what his patron referred to.

"I might very easily have put myself in the way of it," continued the
Squire. "My father left me a well-stocked cellar, and I have had to
dispense hospitality; but I have mostly contented myself with listening
to other people's praises of my wines, remembering an old saying that
those who constantly seek their own reflections at the bottom of their
tankards are likely oftenest to see an ass. The saying certainly holds
good of a man who, in immediate opposition to his doctor's orders,
feeds his gout on beer. No, Bluff: if the Almighty were responsible for
your gout, I should feel very differently about the matter. As it is,
although I shall consider myself bound to see that your old age does
not come to want, you must certainly understand that you will have to
make way, within due notice, for a man who can put his beer mug on one
side in favour of duty."

Farmer Bluff tried hard to obtain a commutation of this sentence.

But the Squire was a man who knew his own mind, once it was made up,
and who did not make it up hastily either. He had for some years past
been much disgusted with his bailiff conduct; and the experience of
the last few months had finally decided him. He was determined to
leave upon the estate a thoroughly efficient bailiff. To this intent,
having given due notice to the gouty old rascal who at present held
the office, he now rose and took his leave, Farmer Bluff ringing his
handbell— though not so roughly as before—for Elspeth to show the
Squire out.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV.

THE SQUIRE'S GRANDSONS.

WHILST the Squire had been giving old Bluff his deserts in the farm
parlour, his three grandsons—none other than the boys whose mother Dick
had thought so beautiful—had left the grounds by a winding path that
skirted the plantation and emerged on to a fieldway leading into the
road a few hundred yards above the farm. Turning to the left hand of
the farm, this road ran round the foot of a piece of rising ground.
Probably the man who first made a cart-track there, found it pay better
to go a little way round than to make his beasts drag their burdens
over the hill. But there was a shorter cut for pedestrians almost
opposite the pathway from the Manor House; and for this the boys were
bound.

Just as they were in the act of crossing the stile, who should come
round the bend but the Squire, whose next business took him up that
very road. The boys saw him at once. Two of them—the two taller
ones—ran forward to meet him, the other following at his quickest
pace. The Squire was a favourite with his grandsons. He was such a boy
amongst them, although he had been born over eighty years before them;
and yet withal he was so grand and courtly.

Will and Sigismund dashed forward, but the Squire looked beyond them
to the cripple, who was exerting himself manfully to show equal
appreciation of his aged relative.

"Bravo, Hal, bravo!" cried he, applauding with his gold-headed cane.

Will and Sigismund faced about, looking half-ashamed, as if they felt
it was almost mean to have taken such an advantage of their afflicted
brother. But the Squire did not exactly intend that. It would have been
altogether too hard for boys with strong legs to give up using them
because their brother limped on irons. It was rather that the Squire
had a very tender spot in his heart for Hal, and that he saw in the
boy's brave, invincible spirit an earnest of what the man would be.

"God grant that he may grow to be a man!" he often uttered in his
heart. And it really seemed that Hal was growing stronger year by year.

Meanwhile Hal, flushed and out of breath, was up with them.

"Where are you going, grandfather?" asked he eagerly, as he swung
himself round to walk by the Squire's side, Sigismund making way for
him.

"Up to the cottages by the wood gate," replied his grandfather, laying
one hand on his shoulder. "Almost out of bounds for you, eh?"

But Hal shook his head. "Why, I've been right into the wood, you know;
last autumn, nutting."

"Ah, to be sure!" acquiesced the old gentleman.

"But what are you going there for, grandfather?" questioned Hal, who
was noted for his inquisitive spirit. Impertinent, some good people
would have said; but not so his grandfather.

"How can a boy learn what he doesn't know, if he may not ask a
question?" he would say. "A spirit of inquiry is one of the first
requisites to learning." So now he answered without reserve.

"To see about having one put in repair for Farmer Bluff," said he.

"For Farmer Bluff?"

The question was from all three at once.

The Squire nodded gravely. "For Farmer Bluff," repeated he. "He has to
leave the Manor Farm."

"To leave?"

"Why, grandfather?"

This was Hal's question. Hal always came straight to the point, as if
he had a right to know; and his grandfather seldom, if ever, put him
off.

"Because," answered he, "the time has arrived when he must make way for
a better man."

"But surely, grandfather," said Hal, "you won't turn him away, after
all the years he has been bailiff. Why! Ever since mother first brought
us to live with you."

"Ay, and before that," broke in the Squire regretfully. "When I thought
your poor father would have been Squire after me. Twenty-seven years
Farmer Bluff has lived on that farm; but—"

"But it isn't fair to turn him out because he's getting old,
grandfather," interrupted Hal, with a bold familiarity that no one else
would have dared to use towards the old gentleman.

"Tut, tut, lad," rejoined the Squire. "Who said was because he was too
old?"

"Well, grandfather," put in Sigismund, who according to size would be
the next youngest to Hal, "you said 'a better man.'"

"Better doesn't always mean younger," said Hal eagerly; "does it,
grandfather?"

"Nor does younger mean better," returned the Squire. "I always like to
think of my eighty-four years as a token of God's favour."

"Good people generally live to be old, don't they?" suggested
Sigismund, straying from the point at issue. "In the Bible they did."

"Steady living is conducive to longevity;" replied the old man.
"That is to say, those who live sober, temperate lives give their
constitutions the fairest chance of withstanding natural decay, and of
escaping the ravages of disease by which so many are prematurely cut
off."

"Is that why Farmer Bluff has the gout?" queried Hal. "Because he has
been intemperate?"

"Very likely," replied the Squire. "It is quite certain that at the
present time he is aggravating the complaint and forfeiting my esteem
by the childish obstinacy with which he persists in drinking beer, when
he knows it is as good as drinking so many pains and twinges. But you
mustn't run away with the notion that God always rewards virtue with
long life; for that is not His greatest gift."

Hal asked no more questions just then. They had crossed the stile
during this conversation, and were climbing the pathway up the hill
towards the wood, where there was plenty to claim the attention of boys.

Larks were rising from the tussocks; finches darted in and out the
hedge; and as they got nearer to the wood, wild rabbits, all tail,
frisked about their burrows. Once or twice a grey rat ran out of
his hole, and sat upon his haunches in the track, staring stupidly
before him until they were quite close; then doubling suddenly, and
disappearing in the ditch.

Will and Sigismund were full of excitement, running and jumping and
leaping; but Hal kept by his grandfather, swinging himself along at an
even pace that agreed very well with the old gentleman's step; and so
they reached the gate of the wood, and the cottages in one of which the
Squire intended his bailiff to live rent free.

There was already a noise of carpenters at work, and a cheery sound of
men talking over their saws and planes. Hal followed his grandfather
inside, and went round, listening with great interest to all that
passed between him and the workmen. But the other boys stayed outside,
overrunning the garden, and talking to the gamekeeper, who lived next
door. Finally they strayed into the wood, which was only separated from
the garden by a ditch, dry summer and winter alike. By the time the
Squire had finished giving his orders, they were quite out of sight and
hearing.

At length, the Squire sent the keeper down the clearing after them. Hal
was standing by his side, resting on his crutches. The Squire, looking
down at him, saw that his face wore a thoughtful look, and fancied he
was tired.

"Better go inside and sit down on Champion's sawstool," suggested he
kindly; "it's a long way back, and you and I aren't so young as those
two madcaps. Eh?"

At that instant, however, Will and Sigismund appeared, talking gaily to
the man as they advanced.

The Squire beckoned, and they set forward at a run, giving the stout
old Velveteens a good view of their soles, and leaving him to follow at
his sober pleasure. But Hal had already seized his opportunity.

"Grandfather," said he, moving nearer.

The old man faced about.

"Grandfather, I was wondering if I could make Farmer Bluff see how
silly it is to keep on having gout?"

"To keep on drinking beer?—Hardly," quoth the Squire, "since his doctor
fails. People usually believe their medical man, if anybody, when they
are in pain."

"And I mean," added Hal, anxious to gain his point before the others
came up, "if he left off having gout, should you still be obliged to
turn him out of the Manor Farm?"

"Why, no," answered the Squire; "not if he showed himself capable of
doing his duty as bailiff of the estate. But the fact is, I can't be
Squire and bailiff too at my age; and if I could, I shouldn't long be
able to, because—things don't go on for ever and a day, Hal."

Just then the other two boys cleared the ditch, and bounded up, with a
ready apology for having kept their grandfather waiting; then, passing
in at the back door, they all went through to the road again.

On reaching the front door, the Squire suddenly remembered something he
had meant to say, and stepped back again. Hal waited with him, but Will
and Sigismund ran straight out.

In the middle of the road a boy was standing, looking this way and
that, as if undecided in which direction to go. Seeing two lads his own
age, he at once advanced.

"Can you tell me where I am?" asked he.

"By the gate of the wood," answered Will, pointing past the cottages to
the red-painted gate.

"Is this beyond the common?" asked the boy.

"Most certainly," was Will's reply.

"Then I'm where I've no business," rejoined the boy, who was none other
than Dick Crozier. On leaving his new acquaintance, Bill the Kicker, he
had wandered on by the right-hand road, until his way had met that of
the Squire and his grandsons by the cottages.

Apart from Hal, Dick did not recognise them as the Manor House boys.
Hal no sooner appeared in the doorway, however, than their identity
flashed upon him. The next minute, the Squire himself emerged, tapping
the ground briskly with his cane as he walked, as an indication that
time was short and they must get forward without delay.

Perceiving Will in conversation with a strange boy, he stopped short;
whereupon Will explain that Dick had lost his way.

The Squire inquired where he came from, but this Will had not yet
asked; so the Squire turned to Dick himself.

"Your name, my boy?" asked he.

Dick had no sooner recognised Hal than it flashed upon him that the
grand old gentleman with the gold-headed cane was none other than the
Squire himself; and although not more troubled with bashfulness than
most boys of his age, he was just a trifle flustered at the discovery.
Nevertheless, he answered straightforwardly enough,—

"Crozier, sir."

"Crozier; a son of my new tenant, surely?" said the Squire in his
courtly way. "I am always pleased to make the acquaintance of a tenant,
Master—"

"Dick, sir."

"Master Dick; and as we're all going one way, we will proceed together,
if you please."

So they set off, Dick and Hal walking on either side of the Squire, the
other two a pace or two in front.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.

"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.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI.

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.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII.

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.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII.

"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.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER IX.

RENEWING ACQUAINTANCE.

ELSPETH fully anticipated the honour of giving lunch to this strange
artist, for whom Bill had borrowed the chair. It was a good step up
to the public house by the church; and common sense told her that
a shelter so near at hand, where he could rest and eat, would be a
convenience not to be despised.

Accordingly, she laid forward with her work, in order to be ready to
do the honours of a cold-meat spread any time after eleven o'clock,
by which hour she counted he might reasonably be getting hungry. As
fortune would have it, however, she was doomed to disappointment.

Setting out about half-past nine for a walk his grandsons, the Squire
with Hal at his side, arrived at the stile beyond the Manor Farm,
intending to proceed by way of the riverbank and the fields to the
church, and thence to the gate of the wood, to see how Farmer Bluff's
place of exile was progressing.

Will and Sigismund were quickly over; and whilst Hal and the old
gentleman were following at leisure, on they ran as usual. They no
sooner disappeared beyond the corner where the path curved round the
orchard than they came racing back.

"Such an odd object!" cried Will, in his clear, sharp voice. "A man
under a white canvas umbrella!"

"Like a missionary teaching the heathen," put in Sigismund; for the
equinoctial sun was in one of its rare hot moods, and our artist had
been glad to screen his eyes from its glare.

A few moments later, the Squire and Hal were in sight of him. Hal, as
usual, was just ready with some question, when his grandfather uttered
an exclamation of pleasure and surprise. At the same moment, a look of
recognition passed over the artist's face, and he rose, respectfully
doffing his hat.

"Why, Grantley!" exclaimed the old gentleman, hurrying forward with
extended hand. "I little thought you were upon my domains."

"On Tommy Tinker's ground," put in, sotto voce, Will, who always had
something mischievous at the tip of his tongue.

The artist replied that he himself had not been aware of it until,
inquiring his way of a labouring man up by the church, he had learned
the name of the place. "I intended doing myself the honour of calling
on you later in the day," he added; "when the air becomes too chilly
for work."

"By all means," said the Squire cordially. "I shall be delighted.
I see you have already made acquaintance with my bailiff, or his
housekeeper," added he, glancing at the chair.

Grantley acquiesced. "A decent, hospitable kind of body too," returned
he; "offered to get me luncheon presently—which, by the way, I think
will come acceptable before long; for I breakfasted at six, preparatory
to my tramp over from the town; and I find your country air sharpening
to the appetite."

"You will find my bailiff but indifferent company, I fear," said the
Squire. "Farmer Bluff is all that his name implies; a gouty old sinner,
too, who deserves every twinge in his joints as heartily as ever any
one did. However, if he is expecting you, of course—"

"Oh! From what the good woman said," interrupted Grantley, "I am not to
enjoy the honour of sitting down with Farmer Bluff. She spoke of her
front kitchen."

"I suspected as much," rejoined the Squire. "Bluff was never noted
for the virtue of hospitality, and never will be. This is simply a
scheme of Dame Elspeth's to turn an honest half-crown. That being so,
I propose that you come up to lunch with me at the Manor House; or if
that will take you from your work too soon, go in and have a snack of
bread and bacon in Elspeth's kitchen, and come on to dine with me at
six."

This arrangement seemed best to suit Grantley, who was anxious to lose
none of the short spring day. "It will make a pretty sketch," said he,
"if I can do it justice; but I am expecting a lad back presently—the
one who fetched out Dame Elspeth and the chair; a lively urchin, from
the way in which he scrambled through the hedge there, rather than go
round like ordinary folk to the front entrance."

"Well for him that the old farmer has his gout on, if he is familiar
with the way through that hedge," observed the Squire. "But if Farmer
Bluff suffers that way, his dog Blazer doesn't; and the dog isn't a
whit more bland-tempered than his master."

"Oh, grandfather!" put in Hal, who was listening as usual, his keen
eyes moving quickly from one to the other of the speakers. "Blazer is
ever so much nicer than Grip. He's an honest old doggie."

"Perhaps Farmer Bluff might become an honest old bailiff in your hands,
my boy," returned his grandfather, "if only his gout allowed him to
live long enough to see you in power. This is Hal, the coming man,"
continued he to Grantley; "the eldest son of your old schoolfellow, who
will be Squire in my stead one of these days, I hope."

Grantley said something pleasant in answer to this information; but Hal
could not help feeling that he cast a pitying glance at his crutches
and irons.

"I hope I shall be as good a Squire as you, grandfather," said he in a
low voice.

"Aim at being better, my boy," returned his grandfather, laying a fond
hand on his shoulder. "The higher our ideal, the higher we may hope
to reach. Set before yourself not the Squire your old grandfather
has been, but the Squire Christ Jesus would have been if He—the only
perfect man—had been Lord of the Manor to the people here."

And somehow, with his grandfather's words, it came over the cripple
boy, that with such an ideal before him, it would not so very much
matter to his squireship if he could not follow the hounds or ride in
the steeplechase.

Then they set forward, and presently they met Dick Crozier on his way
back from witnessing Bill's encounter with the goose.

The Squire stopped.

"Well, Master Dick," said he, for he rarely forgot a name, "you're out
early; and you haven't missed your way to-day."

Dick answered "No;" but coloured to the crown, for conscience reminded
him that he had none the less been out of bounds.

The Squire, however, knowing nothing of his father's injunctions,
misinterpreted the blush, judging him to be of a modest turn. Now the
Squire liked a boy who wasn't "made of brass;" so he took Dick to his
heart thenceforth.

"My grandsons will be pleased to show you the grounds at the Manor
House any time you like to come up for a game," said he.

Dick thanked him.

"And if you're not too tired to turn back with us just now," continued
the Squire, "we shall all be pleased to have your company."

So Dick, who had till one o'clock upon his hands, turned back towards
the river with them, nothing loth to walk in such august society.

Meanwhile Bill, upon the riverbank, behind the willow clump, had just
finished washing out his pockets, which he had wrung out as dry as he
could before putting his jacket on again. This done, he turned to take
a survey of the distant hostile squadron.

To his amazement and dismay, whom should he behold but Dick Crozier and
the Squire's grandsons making straight for the very spot where he had
given the goose that vicious kick; and in their midst the brisk, trim
figure of the Squire himself, one hand behind his back, as usual, the
other grasping the gold head of his cane.

"Now, if he ha'n't been straight and split on me!" exclaimed Bill to
himself. "There's a mess!"

This was precisely what Dick—being somewhat in the same mess—had not
done, and had no intention of doing. The history of the affair was this.

Turning to the left, along the riverbank, to gain the cottages by
the gate of the wood, the Squire and his grandsons had come upon the
extraordinary spectacle of a flock of some ten or a dozen geese huddled
together in apparent agitation and concern at a distance of several
yards from one member of their flock, who was writhing and flapping
on the grass in evident distress and agony. Their conduct betrayed a
curious mixture of fear and sympathy. Now and again, one or another
would come out from among her fellows, and make a few steps forward
with outstretched neck, whilst the rest of the flock chorused her with
warning screams of "Ya-hi!—Ya-hi!" But having contemplated the poor
sufferer for some seconds, the spectacle of a sister's sufferings
evidently became too much for her feelings, and she waddled away again
to seek support of the gander, who stood hindermost of all, utterly
useless in such an emergency.

Hal's quick eyes had been the first to catch sight of her.

"She's dying, grandfather!" exclaimed he; and as his brothers rushed
forward, he felt in all its keenness the privation of his crippled
condition.

Dick was in no such hurry, for he guessed pretty accurately what was
the matter with the goose; though whether Bill's boot had broken her
breast-bone or bruised her internal organs, he could not tell; so he
followed on with Hal and his grandfather.

The Squire looked on for some minutes with both perplexity and concern
at the poor creature's distress, then he turned to Hal and Sigismund.

"Run to Farmer Bluff's, both of you," said he. "Bring one of the men.
The poor thing must be attended to at once."

Off ran Will and Sigismund at the top of their speed, whilst the other
three looked on, not knowing what to do.

And in the distance stood Bill, watching them, and wondering what
would come of it all. At length, recollecting his appointment with the
artist, and concluding that it would be safer not to venture back to
Farmer Bluff's field by that path, Bill set off running in the opposite
direction, intending to go round the longer way by which Dick had met
him when they quarreled about the broken egg.

All this while, Dick was in a sad dilemma, for he dared not tell what
he knew, although he could so easily have put them on the right track
with regard to the poor bird's sufferings.

At length, two of the farm labourers arrived, and after a short
examination, amid much cackling and screaming from the rest of the
flock, they carried off the injured goose in a basket they had brought
for the purpose, to doctor her after their simple light; or, as a last,
humane measure, to put a quick end to her struggles.

"For it's my opinion, sir," said one of the men wisely, as they placed
her in the basket, "that her 'll not get over this. I've seen 'em took
like this before; and they never live."

"Then kill her mercifully, by all means," the Squire answered him; "and
end her sufferings."

And they continued on their way.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER X.

THE INQUEST.

"THAT'S two geese lost this spring," observed one of the men next
morning, as the injured bird breathed her last under his hand. "Warn't
the governor mad!"

And so he was. He cursed, he swore, he raged; he would have stamped,
had not his infirmity prevented it. Above all, he felt deeply injured
that his gout prevented him from going out to see after things himself;
for when he used to be about, such casualties never happened. Being
tied to his chair, however, and having now one hand bad, in addition to
his feet, he could use nothing more violent than his tongue.

And at length, the men, having listened as long as they thought
necessary, to his stream of abuse, carried out the goose to execute
their mournful duty.

Left to himself, Farmer Bluff gradually cooled down; and as he cooled,
certain words of Hal's came back to mind. This gout, Hal had said, was
of his own seeking. If so, it was his own fault that he had lost the
geese. Farmer Bluff instinctively reached out his sound hand for the
silver mug, and having drained it of its contents, fell into a brown
study.

In the midst of his reflections, he heard a sudden tap against the
window at his back, and looking round, he saw Hal's face pressed
against the glass. The boy nodded; so did the bailiff—in spite of his
grumps; and Hal swung himself off to ring at the bell, sitting down in
the porch to wait.

Elspeth was more astonished than ever, on taking her usual peep through
the slit window.

"Well! If you ain't layin' yourself open to hear a lot of language that
ain't fit for the ears of the likes o' you!" exclaimed she, as she
opened the door. "The master's that mad about the goose, that he's done
nothing but swear ever since they brought her in."

Hal was already on his feet—or rather, his crutches.

"Never mind," said he. "It won't hurt me if he swears ever so. It's not
what goes in at your ears that defiles you, you know, but what comes
out of your mouth; because that shows what's in your heart."

So Hal went in, and was announced as before—"The young Squire, sir!"

Farmer Bluff was looking towards the door in expectation. His features
relaxed on sight of the boy's cheery face.

Hal wished him "good morning."

"Left hand," said he, as his young master swung himself across to shake
hands. The right arm was suspended from his neck in a large checked
handkerchief.

Hal looked serious. "Is that gout too, Mr. Bluff?" asked he, standing
in front of him, and eyeing the bandaged arm.

Farmer Bluff nodded.

"Ah! Young master," said he; "you didn't know what a plaguesome thing
it was, once it got hold of your system; did you now? It couldn't
be satisfied with getting me off my legs, but it must disable my
knife-hand. It'll have the fork one next, I'll be bound; and then there
'll be a pair of 'em. A quadruped of gout!"

He looked rather proud over this joke. It wasn't many he made when he
had gout.

But Hal stood silent.

"I'm disappointed," said he. "I expected to find you better; and
instead of that, you're worse." And he went and sat down on a chair
opposite—the same one he had occupied on his first visit—looking
perplexed and grieved. Presently he said,—"It's that mug, Mr. Bluff.
I'm sure of that. Have you thought about it any more?"

"Why, no," returned the bailiff; "not much. I can't say I have. I've
thought more about the goose, a long chalk."

"Yes; that was a pity," said Hal sympathetically. "I was very sorry for
the poor thing."

"Two broods lost in one year," said Farmer Bluff, getting on his moody
expression again. "More than a man like me can afford to lose. Now, if
I'd been about—"

"There you are again," put in Hal. "If you will have gout—"

"It's all those men," continued the old fellow wrathfully. "They're
so—" Farmer Bluff pulled up suddenly, before he added "careless." He
was going to throw in one of his swearing expressions, to give weight
to the word; but he fortunately recollected Hal in time, and checked
himself.

"Did they find out what she died of?" asked Hal.

"Of a knife in her throat, of course," laughed the old bailiff grimly.

"But what was the matter first, I mean," explained Hal.

Farmer Bluff shook his head. "They brought her in to me," said he; "and
I couldn't see, except that she was dying pretty fast. So I told 'em to
put an end to it."

"You'll have an inquest, won't you?" said Hal presently.

Farmer Bluff laughed outright. "An inquest on a goose!" roared he.
"Upon my soul, young master, you're an original; though, when you come
to look at it, half the inquests are on geese. He! he!—" And he laughed
again at his own wit.

But Hal was quite in earnest. To him there was nothing funny in it at
all. "There always is a post-mortem," said he seriously, "when anybody
dies without the doctor being able to tell the cause of death. I think
that if I were you, I should like to know why that goose died. It might
enable you to prevent any more of them dying the same way, you know.
Perhaps it was something in the food."

Farmer Bluff shook his head. "I daresay it's been 'post-mortemed' for
somebody's dinner by now," said he, with grim humour. "I told 'em to
cut her throat and put her underground; but such as them don't often
get the chance to taste goose flesh. I'll be bound she's twirling on
the spit by now."

After a little more talk, Hal took his crutches. "Well," said he, "I
must wish you 'good morning,' Mr. Bluff; and as you've got the gout
in your right arm I won't trouble you to shake hands. But I'd have it
out of there, if I were you, feet and all. You really must think about
that mug this time; now, won't you? I'm certain it's the mug that does
the mischief; because, you see, you're proud of it, and directly we're
proud of anything, we forget all the rest. But you won't have a goose
to put it out of your head this time?"

Farmer Bluff replied that he "hoped to goodness not."

And Hal let himself out.

That evening at dinner,—for the boys always enjoyed the privilege of
dining with their grandfather in the holidays,—the subject of the goose
came up, and Hal told what he knew of its fate.

"Upon my word," remarked the Squire, after hearing how Hal had aired
his ideas about the post-mortem, "you were right too; and if I had
known it, the bird should not have been put out of the way in that
slip-shod fashion. As it is, the thing shall be looked into."

"Your bailiff is guilty of allowing the consumption of unwholesome
food," observed young Grantley, who had had accepted the Squire's
pressing invitation to make the Manor House his home whilst his pencil
was busy in the neighbourhood. "It is to be hoped the 'fortunate'
family will reap no disastrous effects."

"Such a thing might have very serious consequences," added Hal's
mother, who was very much concerned.

Finally, after due deliberation, the Squire gave orders that some one
should at once be sent to ascertain the name of the man to whom the
fate of the goose had been intrusted; and that having done this, the
messenger should at once proceed to the man's cottage, and learn what
had become of the stricken bird's remains.

It was quite late in the evening when at length a servant came to say
that Hobbs—the man who had gone—was waiting in the hall.

The boys' bedtime was already long past, but they had begged to sit up
a little longer, and they now all followed their grandfather out to
hear the result of the investigations.

Hobb's account, however, although it quieted all anxiety with regard to
the meal afforded to the Grig family, only involved in further mystery
the cause of the goose's death.

Mrs. Grig, on being questioned, had reported that when plucking it
ready for trussing, she had discovered a great black bruise upon its
breast, and that upon further examination she had found the breast-bone
to be broken. As to the wholesomeness of the flesh, however, she was
ready to affirm before anybody that a sweeter bird never came from the
poulterer's,—although "it wasn't quite in prime condition, not being in
the fatting season." She had finished up by giving it as her opinion
that there was no doubt about death having been due to accident rather
than disease.

"There was one item rayther cur'ous 'bout the information as I got,
sir," said Hobbs finally. "When old Jaggers went home to he's breakfast
at the stroke of eight that morning, there was three eggs in the old
white goose's nest, and two in the speckled's, as stood nighest it. But
when he comed back, blest if there hadn't out o' each nest disappeared
one egg; so's to leave no more'n two in one, and one in t'other,"
repeated Hobbs, looking round about upon his hearers to make sure they
followed him. "And depend upon it, that old white goose had had a fight
wi' some un as came to steal her egg. Though how the crittur dragged
herself right away down to the river, wi' that broken bone, is past all
understanding—except that sittin' birds 'll do 'most anything."

"What about the dog Blazer too?" exclaimed young Grantley, who had
followed out to hear the news. "Why! That was the first morning I was
there sketching. They said the dog was loose too."

"Who said so?" asked the Squire sharply.

"The boy who fetched my chair. And, by the by," exclaimed young
Grantley suddenly, "I have it all! That young rascal was down there
hiding in the ditch when first I came along; and he got in through
hedge in quite a practised fashion."

"Ha!" exclaimed the Squire. "But he didn't bring your chair that way?"

"No; he just used that as a pretext for getting through, and came back
with a black eye and a tale about the dog being off the chain; and,
having crammed me with that, he offered to go round to the front—"

"Where Blazer could have got at him just the same, if he had really
been loose," put in Hal.

"Now that I remember," added Grantley, "when I first came up and
caught him in the ditch, he invented a history about rats, for which
he professed to get so much a head. He said they stole the eggs; but
I guess the young scapegrace himself was the biggest rat of the lot,
and had his eye upon the biggest eggs. I should hardly think that rats
would tackle a goose's egg."

"There's not a doubt about it but you've found the clue," returned the
Squire. "The question to be answered is, Who was the boy?"

Young Grantley shook his head.

"But you put him in your picture, didn't you?" suggested Hal.

The Squire smiled. "Hal thoroughly believes in your power of faithful
portraiture," observed he.

Young Grantley laughed. "Yes," said he; "I put him in. I told him to
return in an hour or two. He was nearer three. He said he had been
home."

"Which way did he go?" asked Hal.

"Towards the riverbank," was the reply; "but then we haven't yet
decided who he was. My easel, Squire," he added, "is in Elspeth's
charge. I'll run down and fetch the canvas if you like."

"No, no; not the least hurry," returned the Squire; "the morning will
do just as well. We will sleep upon the information that you've given
us."

The boys begged hard to be allowed to escort young Grantley to the farm
at once; but it was getting very late, and their grandfather would not
entertain the idea.

"Dame Elspeth wouldn't thank us for curtailing her hours of rest,"
said he. "She is up betimes, no doubt. To bed, now; and directly after
breakfast to-morrow, we will start, and identify the thief."

Finding that there was no appeal, the boys gave in. Will and Sigismund
went off to bed in high spirits at the idea of dragging a culprit to
justice by means of an artist's sketch; but Hal lingered behind, a
minute.

"Grandfather," said he, "what will be done with the boy? Will he go to
prison, or what?"

"That depends," replied the Squire. "According to the old proverb, we
must catch him first before we cook him. He certainly shall not be let
off punishment if we do; you need not fear."

"I meant," replied Hal, "that I don't want him punished. I should fancy
that it would harden a boy. I would rather have him talked to."

"Be sure he would remember a good smarting far longer," rejoined his
grandfather; "and I should feel myself to blame if I neglected to let
him feel the consequence of his bad conduct. Such small beginnings are
as the seed-corn in the earth, which bringeth forth some thirtyfold,
some sixtyfold, and some an hundredfold. That is equally true of bad,
as of good seed. But now be off."

That night Hal went to bed with two sinners on his mind,—Farmer Bluff,
with his silver mug and his gout, and the youthful but unknown villain
who had murdered the old white goose and robbed her nest.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XI.

AN ARTIST-DETECTIVE.

THE family assembled with great punctuality at the breakfast-table
next morning. Will and Sigismund crowded round young Grantley, who
had acquired great importance in their eyes, since he had assumed his
novel rôle of detective. Hal, on the contrary, looked rather serious,
wondering who the culprit would turn out to be, and what punishment he
would have to undergo.

Immediately breakfast was over, the Squire rose and took his
gold-headed cane. Young Grantley and the boys followed him out on to
the verandah, Hal's mother accompanying them, to shade her eyes with
her hand and watch them off, as Dick had seen her do on the first
occasion of his peeping over the plantation palings at the Manor House.

Outside the lodge they chanced upon Dick, who had been down to the
railway with his father. The squire gave him a benevolent salute, and
the boys stopped to speak.

"We can't stay though," said Sigismund. "Turn back with us."

So Dick turned back.

"We're off to the Manor Farm," explained Will. And he went on to give
the details of the theft, and how suspicion had come to rest upon the
boy whom Mr. Grantley had put in his sketch of the church, but whose
name was of course unknown to him. "We're going to identify him by the
sketch," added he.

"Mr. Grantley leaves his easel at the farm," put in Sigismund. "I think
it's splendid fun. It's exactly like a real police case, isn't it?"

Dick's face had become nearly as serious as Hal's at this intelligence.
If the theft should be brought home to Bill, his own share in the
affair was certain to come out, and then it would be all up with his
pleasant footing at the Manor House.

"Whoever it was, pretty nearly killed the goose," added Will.

And between them, they narrated the events of the preceding evening,
and how the Grig family had feasted on the poor goose's remains.

This was getting hotter and hotter for Dick. At length, he grew so
uncomfortable that on reaching the gate of the farm, he said he would
go no farther and in spite of all their pressing that he should wait
outside and see the picture when Mr. Grantley brought it out, he
turned, and left them to go in alone.

They had no sooner knocked at the kitchen door, however, than Dick
changed his mind, and followed on towards the cottages beyond the farm.
If Bill were anywhere about, he might give him a hint to keep out of
the way a bit, until the storm blew over.

Dick's chief motive in this design was to avoid getting his character
blackened in the Squire's eyes by association with Bill. He overlooked
the more important consideration that he who meddles with mire is
blackened, whether other people know it or not; and that there is One,
before whose piercing gaze no hiding can avail, since He "looketh on
the heart."

As it happened, Bill was just outside, off for a stroll. Seeing Dick,
he turned the other way; but Dick ran after him.

"I say," cried he, "you're in for a pretty row. It's all come out about
the goose and those two eggs you stole."

"I daresay!" flung out Bill. "Of course you've been and told."

"Of course I haven't," answered Dick. "The gentleman that put you in
his picture smelt it out; and the Squire's gone up with him to the
farm, to see the picture and identify your phiz."

This information was so startling that poor Bill's hair positively
stood on end.

"It's only to be hoped he hasn't drawn you well," continued Dick; "but
somehow these things always do come out. It's what they call the law of
justice I expect. If I were you, I guess I'd hide away a bit. You see,
you don't exactly know what they may do. You wouldn't get less than a
month, you may make pretty sure, with the Squire after you, and Farmer
Bluff behind, to back him up."

"But where am I to go?" asked Bill, so seriously that Dick perceived at
once how terrified he was.

"Why, right away somewhere," said he, determined upon striking whilst
the iron of Bill's fear was hot. "If I were in your shoes, I wouldn't
even stay to think. I'd set off this very minute, and I'd go on running
till I dropped. I'd walk till night. I'd do anything, short of jumping
into the river, to escape a month in gaol. I saw inside a cell once,"
continued Dick impressively.

And then he shook his head with such effect that Bill looked round,
almost expecting that his gaolers were at hand. As nothing was to be
seen of them, however, Bill began to examine the matter more closely.

"How can I get food to eat, if I run away?" said he.

"Work for it, of course," returned Dick contemptuously. "A boy your
size must be a donkey if he can't pick up enough to buy his victuals.
You mightn't get much else but bread; but if you come to think, you'd
get no more than that in gaol."

And it struck Bill that bread and water, with liberty, would be sweeter
far than the daintiest fare in a prison cell.

"You'd have your hair cropped too," urged Dick; "and all the boys would
pelt you, and call names, when you came out again."

"I should have nowhere to sleep," said Bill, still hesitating.

"Oh! You could get a lodging cheap enough," said Dick; "and anyhow—I'll
tell you what. If don't make your mind up pretty quick, you'll have 'em
down on you. The Squire's sure to recognise your picture; and he'll
come right straight off here. If I were you, I'd go inside and grab
whatever I could find to stuff my pockets with, and then I'd be off
like a shot. I wouldn't stand stock-still and let 'em put the handcuffs
on; not I!"

Bill turned. His mother had gone out, and he could take just what he
liked.

"Look here," said Dick, with a sudden show of generosity, "I'll start
you with that sixpence I was to give you for the egg; and then, you
mind!—You've never got to say a word about my name, d'ye hear?"

And Bill, convinced that he had better escape, and glad to get so much
to start him on his wanderings, promised, and ran indoors. A minute
later, he reappeared, his jacket-tails stuffed out to twice their size,
and in his hand a huge hunch of bread, which he was cramming down his
throat as fast as he could swallow.

"I'm off!" said he; and away he ran along the road.

"Good luck to you!" cried Dick. And having watched him out of sight, he
clambered over the gate of a field just opposite the cottages, and hid
behind the hedge, to wait and see what would happen.

Meanwhile, Elspeth had been astonished beyond measure at the formidable
party that besieged her kitchen door. In the first place, she was not
accustomed to let the Squire in that way; and in the second, she caught
up at once, from odd remarks, that something was amiss; so having
brought the easel out from its place behind the churn, she retired to a
respectful distance to listen and pick up what hints she could.

The Squire was the first to look. He examined the canvas closely for an
instant; then he said,—"Now, boys; let each one take a look; then tell
me who this is. To my mind, there's no doubt."

"Why, Bill the Kicker!" sang out all three with one voice.

[Illustration]

"And so say I," confirmed the Squire.

"It's splendid!" added Will.

"The rascal!" said the Squire. "He shall smart for it."

Elspeth came a step or two towards the group.

"Would it be the lad that fetched the chair?" asked she.

"The same," nodded young Grantley. "Will you like to look?"

And he politely turned the canvas towards her, whilst the boys made way.

"That was Bill Mumby—Bill the Kicker, as they call him," said Elspeth
as she approached. "And so is this," she added, the instant she was
near enough to see. "You've drawed him very true, sir, too."

"Then there remains no doubt," returned the Squire, summing up
the evidence, and tapping briskly on the red-brick floor with his
gold-headed cane. "We know whose door the mischief lies at now. The
portrait does you credit, Grantley. You'll be a great man yet."

"Of whom it will be told in after days," said Grantley, not displeased,
"that his first hit was made as a detective in the case of a country
bumpkin versus a goose. Ah! Well, it remains to be seen whether or not
it will be counted worthy of a place in the Academy."

"It shall certainly have a place in the Manor House," returned the
Squire warmly, "if you will name your price."

So the picture found a purchaser before it was completed; and the young
artist went out to his work well pleased.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XII.

BILL'S FUTURE.

HALF an hour later, the Squire stood before the door of Bill the
Kicker's home.

Dick, from his hiding-place behind the hedge, saw him arrive, striking
the ground importantly with his cane, and followed by his grandsons.

"Now for it!" thought Dick, and rubbed his hands in glee.

The Squire knocked; but no one answered, so he knocked again. Still no
one came.

"Go round to the back," said he to Will.

Will went, and returned with the news that he had tried the wash-house
door and found it fast, but through the window he could see a little
fire in the grate.

"We'll knock once more," said the Squire.

This time the upper window of the next door cottage opened, and a head
was hastily thrust out. "Mrs. Mumby a'n't at home," the neighbour
called. Then, seeing who was waiting down below, she humbly begged
pardon, and further informed the Squire that Mrs. Mumby had gone up the
road to carry home some linen.

The Squire thanked her with his customary courtesy; and having hoped
the children were quite well, was going down the pathway, when the good
woman called again to say that Mrs. Mumby was in sight.

When she arrived, her honest face was red with toiling through the
sun; and it went redder when she saw the Squire at her door. But Mrs.
Mumby knew her manners, so she asked him with a curtsey if he wouldn't
step inside; and there she dusted chairs for him and the three young
gentlemen, and stood up, with a corner of her apron in her hand, to
hear what he had come about.

"It's about your boy, Mrs. Mumby," began the Squire, when he had said
a pleasant thing or two about the weather and her health. "He isn't in
just now, I believe."

"No, sir," said the mother; "he isn't in just now."

"And you couldn't say exactly where he is?"

"I couldn't, sir," said she.

"Can you tell me where he was all the morning, two days ago?" the
Squire asked.

"Two days ago?" reflected Mrs. Mumby. "Yes, sir; I believe I can. We
did some mangling early, him and me, afore his father comed in to he's
breakfast; and Bill went out to take it home. All the morning arter
that, sir, he was in the field just by the farm, along o' some strange
gent as took a fancy to the looks of him, and wanted for to put him
in a pictur' of the church. A pretty bit it is, too, sir. I've often
noticed it agoin' 'crost the fields on summer evenings, when the bells
was ringing out for service, sir."

"Well, Mrs. Mumby," said the Squire, anxious to recall her to the point.

"Yes, sir; as I was a-saying," continued Bill's mother, "and I wanted
him so bad that day to turn the mangle and carry linen home; but of
course I naturally thinks, thinks I, 'he'll sure to give him something
for his time.' But it's like such folks, sir; ne'er a copper did my
Bill get out of him. Come home empty-handed, sir; that he did! And me
near dragged to death."

"Did he though!" returned the Squire. "I've heard a different tale
to that. The gentleman—a friend of mine, now staying at the Manor
House—informs me that he gave the boy a silver sixpence for his time.
Now what say you to that?"

"That I'm sorry I should have to tell it of my own, sir," answered Mrs.
Mumby, looking down; "but I'm bound to own as Bill is often caught out
in untruths. It a'n't for want of bringing up. His father never catches
him but what he gets the strap; and so he shall this time, sir, that he
shall. His father 'll be right mad to hear of it."

"But that is not all, I'm grieved to say," pursued the Squire, going on
to tell her the rest of his charges against her rapscallion son.

Mrs. Mumby's face fell lower and lower.

"It's not for want o' being strict with him," repeated she. "Mumby and
me, we're always at him, sir; and, as I say, his father never finds him
out but what he straps him well."

But the Squire shook his head. "It isn't strapping that 'll make a boy
right-minded," answered he, "any more than cutting back will make a
wild plum bear a garden fruit."

"Then what's to do, sir?" said the mother ruefully. "Don't the good
book tell us, 'Spare the rod, and spoil the child'?"

"But it also tells us," said the Squire, "that the evil deeds men do
proceed out of their evil hearts; and that nothing can effect a change
save the Holy Spirit of God, that 'bloweth where it listed' in this
world of sin."

Mrs. Mumby was silent. She knew her Bible pretty well, as she had heard
the parson read it from the desk; but she had hitherto thought only of
the parent's duty of bringing up a child in the way he should go.

This idea that her boy Bill needed a changed heart to make him want
less strapping, was new to her. It had never struck her that "bringing
up" is only like preparing the heart—as ploughing does the field—and
breaking up its hard surface to receive the gospel seed of truth.

"What would you wish us to do, sir?" asked she nervously.

"First of all, to bring the young culprit face to face with me,"
replied the Squire. "I will question him, and see what argument can do;
and if I find him obdurate—well, I shall see what steps to take. There
is no doubt about the truth of what the 'wise man' says; and there are
many 'rods' that can be used to teach the wholesome lesson how that
crooked ways are sure to find their chastisement."

"He'll be in by one, sir, sure," said Mrs. Mumby, half-doubtful whether
to be glad or sorry that the Squire agreed with her about the need of
punishment. "He never lags behind at dinner-time."

"Then bring him round to me," rejoined the Squire, rising to his feet.

The mother dropped a curtsey.

"But you won't be hard on him, sir?" said she timidly.

The Squire struck his cane upon the ground.

"We have his future to consider, Mrs. Mumby," answered he. "A boy who
lies and thieves at his age, must be curbed, or he will end by worse.
But we will hope that, by God's grace, we may turn him from his evil
ways."

The Squire and his grandsons were no sooner fairly out of sight than
Dick came out of hiding, and set off home.

"Bill's well out of that," said he to himself as he thrust his hands
down in his trousers pockets, and set up whistling. Then, recollecting
the price he had paid to get Bill off, he broke off his tune to
add—"And I'm well rid of him." And for all the scarcity of sixpences
with Dick, he even went so far as to count himself cheaply rid of Bill.
"I wouldn't care to have the Squire looking after my future," said Dick.

Meantime, young Grantley's brushes worked busily at the picture of the
church, whilst the Squire and his grandsons made their way across the
fields and by the river to the wood; and having ascertained that the
repairs were progressing satisfactorily, they returned to lunch.

Then the Squire sat down in his study to await the arrival of Mrs.
Mumby and her scapegrace son; and the boys went out of doors to play
about the plantation, taking care to keep well within sight of the
gate, so that they might see when Bill arrived. But the afternoon
wore on. Mumby came in to his dinner, and went back to work; and his
wife put aside the plateful she had reserved for Bill. Then she went
upstairs and cleaned herself against his coming in, so as to be ready
to go up to the Manor House with him.

"I durstn't breathe a word of it till I've got my bonnet on," said she,
"else he'd be off like a shot."

But Mrs. Mumby tidied up, and came downstairs again with her best
bonnet in her hand; and still she found the plate untouched. And all
the afternoon she worked away at her shirt-fronts; but still no Bill
came in.

Presently she made the tea, and had a cup, setting the pot to keep warm
on the hob. And six o'clock brought Mumby home; but still no Bill.

"It's just like he's got scent of it," said she. "A boy like him won't
stand to be corrected while he got legs to run away."

Up at the Manor House they were so less perplexed.

Young Grantley had stowed his easel at the farm, and hurried in to
dinner, all anxiety to hear what had been done. But all the Squire
could tell him, was that neither Mrs. Mumby nor the boy had been.

"It's my opinion, grandfather," said Will, "that Mrs. Mumby has changed
her mind. She's like a silly mother; doesn't want him punished. That's
the fact of it."

"You oughtn't to have spoken out so plain," said Sigismund. "You've
frightened her. You take my word; she's hiding Bill."

In this conviction, they all retired for the night.

Next morning, just as breakfast was concluded, a servant came to say
that, "Mrs. Mumby, from the cottages beyond the Manor Farm," was
waiting in the hall.

Mrs. Mumby's face was drowned in tears.

"Bill's gone and drowned hisself, or run away," she sobbed. "He knew
he'd catch it extra hard; and I shall never see my boy again—my only
boy."

"My good woman," said the Squire soothingly, "you may be quite sure
your boy has too much respect for his own life, to do anything so
foolish as jump into the river. Far more likely he is hiding somewhere
near about, until the storm is past; so dry your eyes, and tell me what
you can."

Mrs. Mumby obeyed.

"He's took a lot o' food out o' the cupboard," said she, choking
down her sobs, and speaking through her apron. "Pretty nigh a half a
quartern loaf, he did. I always have 'em in a day before, to get 'em
stale."

"Proof positive," said Will, "he's run away."

"What should he want with bread in the river, I wonder!" giggled
Sigismund, snacking at the flies with a bit of whip-cord, and half
thinking of Bill the whole time.

"He may have gone into the woods," observed the Squire, half to himself.

"Picnicking," put in Will.

"Has any search been made?" continued his grandfather aloud to Mrs.
Mumby.

The mother answered tearfully that all the neighbours had turned out
with lanterns after dark, on hearing that the boy had not come home;
and many people in the village street had joined the search. Every
outhouse and haystack in the neighbourhood had been ransacked; and many
of the searchers had not given up till dawn.

"They reckoned, you see, sir, that he was bound to drop asleep
somewheres, if so be he was alive," explained Mrs. Mumby; "and they'd
liker hit upon him in the dark than by broad daylight, when he'd be
upon the tramp."

"It looked remarkably as if he had made off," the Squire thought.
"Well, well," said he, "the way will be to telegraph the fact to
Scotland Yard. A thorough search will soon be set on foot." So,
repairing to the study, a description of the runaway was written out,
and a man on horseback forthwith despatched with it to the town.

Whilst this was being arranged, Hal had slipped round to Mrs. Mumby's
side. "I think, you know," said he, "if I could get hold of Bill, and
talk to him, it might do good; but then, you see, you don't know where
he is."

The mother shook her head. "I wish I did," said she.

"I wish you did," echoed Hal. "When you don't know where a person
is, it makes you feel so bad. You see, he'll soon eat up that bread.
It wouldn't last me long; and everybody says I eat so little, for a
growing boy."

"And he eats such a lot," rejoined Bill's mother, comforted by the
interest Hal seemed to take in her boy's fate. "Bless you, sir! You
need to be poor people, like Mumby and me," she added, "to know how
much he does eat."

"And the question is," said Hal reflectively, "what will he do when
that's gone?"

Dick also had heard of the great stir caused by Bill's disappearance.

"There was pretty near a score on us," old Kirkin told him when he ran
down the garden, early that morning. "We didn't put our lanterns out
till four; and up again at six. I can tell 'ee, I ha'n't had a wink o'
sleep."

"I wonder you didn't stay in bed to-day," said Dick.

But Kirkin shook his head. He had been a gardener in his prime, but now
had to get his living by odd jobs as best he could.

"Sleep or no sleep, can't afford to throw up work," said he. "But when
a lad's missing, so that no one knows what's come of him, a man can't
stay in bed to sleep. His mother's like to kill herself."

"I wonder where he's gone," said Dick, which was quite true, so far
as it went. Nevertheless, he felt very uncomfortable, sitting down to
breakfast with the secret of Bill's disappearance on his mind.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIII.

THE YOUNG SQUIRE ASSUMES A NEW CHARACTER.

THREE or four days passed, but no tidings came of Bill the Kicker.

A week went by, and still he was away. They had the river dragged,
and all the ponds; every ditch and pitfall in the neighbourhood was
searched; and printed bills, describing him, were posted up outside all
the police stations of the district; but all to no effect.

The April rains had come on now, and the world had suddenly burst into
verdure. It was a lovely vista that the Squire looked down over the
gate of the wood, when he went to see after the repairs at the cottage.
But he had to take his morning walks alone now. The tutor had returned,
and Easter holidays were up.

Dick's presentiments, too, were realized. His father had found a school
for him; and nine o'clock saw him strapping up his books and hurrying
off to learn as much mischief and as little solid information as he
could—after the fashion of boys made on his pattern.

Meanwhile, Farmer Bluff's gout and the repairs had gone on apace. The
old fellow's prediction had come true more speedily than he desired.
Not many days had elapsed when the left hand was seized, and he became
entirely dependent upon Elspeth—being unable even to feed himself.

As long as the holidays had lasted, Hal had contrived to drop in pretty
often; and he would hardly have believed how much he was missed,
now that lessons and April showers combined to keep him away. One
half-holiday proving fine, however, Hal slipped out between school and
lunch, and set off for the farm. He rang, as usual, but no one came;
so, finding the door on the latch, he pushed it open and announced
himself.

A savoury smell greeted him. Farmer Bluff's dinner tray was on the
table. Hal apologized for his intrusion.

"I didn't know you dined quite so soon," said he.

"No more I do, it seems," returned Farmer Bluff gruffly. "That's how
she serves me pretty nearly every day; just brings it in and takes the
covers off. Then leaves it here for me to smell until it's all gone
cold,—to go and eat her own, I s'pose. And here am I, can't move hand
or foot!"

"That's bad," said Hal; "it spoils the gravy so. You get the fat all on
the top."

It was a mutton chop, and there were greens with it, according to the
doctor's express orders.

"Greens aren't nice cold, either," added Hal. "They get so dabby, don't
they? I suppose it rather comes of your having gout in both hands,
though. Grown-ups are intended to be able to help themselves, you see."

The farmer groaned. He always did, when Hal made these little moral
reflections. If any one had scolded, it would have only angered him and
made him obstinate; but Hal's remarks came out so naturally, and he
looked so sympathetic all the while, that a more ill-tempered man than
Farmer Bluff could scarcely have felt annoyed.

"I'll tell you what," said Hal suddenly. "As I happen to be here just
now, why shouldn't I help you? I can manage quite as well as Mrs.
Elspeth, if you like."

When Elspeth returned, she was astonished to find the young Squire
seated on a corner of the table, with his crutches one side, and the
bailiff's plate the other, preparing dainty mouthfuls with the knife
and fork, and skilfully conveying them to her master's mouth.

"Well, I never!" exclaimed she, pausing in the open doorway in amaze.

"It seemed a pity all this gravy should get cold, because you were
so busy that you couldn't come," explained Hal. "I think, if I were
you, I'd try and make sure of that before I brought the dinner in. I
shouldn't like mine cold. And you must excuse my sitting on the table
too. If I stand, you see, I want my hands to hold my crutches with; and
if I sit down on a chair, I come so low I couldn't reach. I hope I make
it salt enough," he added, as he lodged another forkful in the great
bird's mouth.

Hal's relations with the bailiff became of a far more confidential
nature after this. We often hear it said that a right to give advice
is earned by lending help. So Hal found; only he put it in a different
way. He felt that he had found his way to Farmer Bluff's affection
by performing such a homely office for him; and he treated him
accordingly. He often managed to run in upon half-holidays; and he
didn't only lecture him about the gout. He soon succeeded in making him
talk; so that before long, he knew more of Farmer Bluff's history than
most other people did. He found out how the old man liked to talk of
sport and dogs; but he also learned how Mrs. Bluff had died quite young
of fever, and how one by one, the children whom she left had gone to
follow her, so that in six short weeks, he had been left alone.

[Illustration]

"That was very sad for you," said he. "I shouldn't wonder if that
partly made you have the gout."

"Trouble does act on the system, so the doctors say," said Farmer
Bluff, glad of an excuse for what he knew Hal blamed as his own fault.

But that was not exactly Hal's meaning. "It might have been what made
you take to beer," observed he.

"Now if you'd looked at it like this," continued Hal after due
reflection: "My wife and children are gone on to heaven, where I mean
to join them by and by, when I've done work. Just see what a difference
it would have made. Some people," added he sagely, "only look at every
day as it comes; and if it rains or snows, they think it's never going
to stop. Other people look right ahead to the summer holidays—or to
the harvest, if they're farmers, of course; and that makes all the
difference. They know it will be all right in the long run, don't you
see?"

But Hal's tacit reproof had not made Elspeth one whit more attentive
to the invalid; indeed, if anything, she had been even more neglectful
than before. Her master's time at the farm was getting short, and she
had quite made up her mind to seek another place.

Farmer Bluff raged and swore when she informed him of her
determination. But Elspeth only taunted him with his powerlessness to
execute one word of all his threats or oaths; and finally, having done
her best to rouse his worst passions, she left him to meditate upon his
awkward situation.

Just then Hal, happening to get caught in a shower, swung himself up
the yard and into the porch.

Elspeth grinned as she let him in.

"He's in an awful temper, that I warn you, Master Hal," she said. "I'd
a'most as soon go talk to Blazer as him."

But Hal was not afraid; and before the lapse of many minutes, Farmer
Bluff—without a single oath—had told him how things stood.

"Well, now, let's see," said Hal. "What must you do? You must have
somebody, that's clear. If you hadn't got this gout just now, it would
be different, and you could laugh her in the face,—though I don't know
that it would be exactly Christian to laugh the face of a person who
'despitefully used you;' but I mean you could do without her if she was
determined not to stay. Or rather," added Hal, his thoughts suddenly
taking a leap back to the source of all the difficulty, "you wouldn't
be in such a bother at all; because she would never have given notice
if you hadn't had to move out of the farm. It's all the gout, you see."

Farmer Bluff moved impatiently upon his chair. It was rather hard to be
constantly twitted with that fact—even by Hal; because if it was "all
the gout," it was therefore "all his own fault." But he was paid back
for his pains with such a twinge in either leg, that he involuntarily
moved his arms in their slings; whereupon each finger of each hand
seemed to say—"No good, old fellow; you can't escape your punishment;
for 'whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.'"

Meanwhile Hal was busy trying to think what could be done.

"Haven't you got somebody?" suggested he at last. "Relations are the
best, I think, because they have an interest in you. You must have got
a sister, haven't you?"

Farmer Bluff said "No" at first; but afterwards, he changed his mind.
"Leastways not one who would come," said he. The matter stood thus. He
had a sister once, who married somebody he did not like—a pious man,
who would not drink for the sake of good fellowship, and did not swear.
So he quarrelled with his sister; and when she wrote and told him that
she had a baby boy named after him, he did not answer her; he had never
seen or written to her since.

"She couldn't come in any case, you see," said Hal; "because she has
her own home and her husband to look after."

The bailiff shook his head.

"He's dead," said he. "He died about the same time as my wife, and so
did the boy. She wrote to me to know if I could give her any help.
There was a little girl, I think."

"Then she's just the very one," said Hal.

"Unless she's married some one else," added Farmer Bluff. "But she
wouldn't come. 'Tain't likely, after how I've treated her."

"You don't deserve it, certainly," admitted Hal; which was not exactly
what the farmer meant. "But sisters are amazingly forgiving—so they
say. (I always wish I'd got one, do you know?) If I were you, I'd write
to her."

This advice was rather out of place, seeing the helpless condition of
the old fellow's hands. The upshot of it was, however, that Hal sat
down to write from Farmer Bluff's dictation; and between them they made
up a letter, setting forth the state of things, and offering Mrs. Rust
a home, if she were willing to forgive the past, and come to live with
him. Then Hal got up to say good-bye.

"I'll be sure and have it posted," said he. "If I put it in the hall
with all the other letters, Perkins will take it when he goes from
work."



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIV.

THE VERY ONE.

FARMER BLUFF'S answer came sooner than he expected.

Although Mrs. Rust had been deeply wounded by her hard-hearted
brother's evident lack of affection, she had never cherished the least
ill-will against him. She rather mourned to think that his evil ways
should separate them whilst so many years of life to love each other
were theirs.

But, as it chanced, this proposal that she should make her home with
him, came very opportunely to the lonely, hard-worked widow. Her little
girl, now just eleven, had grown-up very delicate; and in their one
poor room in London, poor Maggie could not have the air and nourishment
of which she stood so much in need. Nothing could be better for her
than the free life of the fields and lanes.

Farmer Bluff read and re-read the letter, which was full of
affectionate expressions, reminding him how they had played together in
the years gone by, before they had begun their separate paths in life,
and learnt what trouble meant. It seemed so wonderful to think that
after these ten years of estrangement on his part, she should still
care for him.

But it was just what Hal had said. "Sisters are amazingly forgiving—"

"Far more so than you deserve," conscience added, in a tone he could
not choose but hear.

He contrived to send a message up to Hal that afternoon. One of the men
happening to come in about the selling of some piglings, he at once
seized the opportunity of letting "the young Squire" know the result of
their joint penmanship. Hal came directly lessons were over for the day.

"Hurrah!" cried he as he entered. "Three cheers for Mrs. Rust!"

Then, after talking it over for a little while, they composed the
answer, directing Mrs. Rust to pack her things together, and come down
next week, to superintend the remove.

Of course, when Elspeth heard of this arrangement, she declared that
she wasn't going to be "mississed over" by a widow woman who was so
hard up that she was ready to snap at the first chance of a home.
And the end of it was that the ill-natured woman cleared out of the
house the very day that Mrs. Rust came in, leaving no provisions ready
cooked, and all the work to do.

But Mrs. Rust made light of that, for there were eggs in plenty to be
had; with the sweet, fresh country bread and butter, she and Maggie
made a hearty meal, and after a short rest, she set herself to work to
take old Elspeth's place.

When the Squire heard of it from Hal, however, he was very angry, and
sent a woman up at once to help her with the work. "It isn't fair,"
said he. "She cannot possibly do it all—look after Farmer Bluff, and
see to things about the dairy and farmyard, and get the cottage into
order too."

Next afternoon, he went round with Hal to see what Mrs. Rust was like,
after her ten years of widowhood.

He found her all that her girlhood had given promise of; tidy,
respectful, and cheery—a thorough specimen of English matronhood.
Meanwhile Hal made acquaintance with her little girl, who stood shyly
near the window, watching Grip, and playing with the flowers she had
gathered in the fields. But she was not shy long; for Hal's frank ways
soon put her at her ease, and they became good friends.

A week later, two of the farm waggons, piled with furniture, rolled
slowly across the yard, and up the road towards the gate of the wood.
And that same evening, with many groans and grunts—but not a single
oath, for little Maggie Rust was by—poor, gouty Farmer Bluff himself,
in a bath-chair, with his two dogs tied behind, was wheeled to his new
home. Next day, the future bailiff took possession of the farm; and the
old life was a thing of the past.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XV.

UNDER SENTENCE.

IT was more difficult for Hal to get as far as Farmer Bluffs cottage;
nevertheless, on the very first half-holiday after the remove, he
appeared there, just as Maggie ran out at the door.

Such a difference there was in her already! The fresh air seemed to
have acted like magic on her languid frame. She would skip and bound
and run; and everywhere her merry voice was heard, laughing, singing,
calling to the dogs; mimicking the birds, or chattering through the
open window to her uncle, who still sat in his arm-chair, bound hand
and foot by gout.

Maggie had made great friends with both the dogs, but especially with
Blazer. It was wonderful to see the fierce, rough creature jump up when
he heard her voice, and stand there pulling at his chain, and whining
for her to come and pat his great head.

And as for Maggie, she did not seem the least afraid of him. "He's
ferocious, but he's honest," she would say. "I wouldn't come within a
mile of him, if I were a thief; but he knows who are friends and who
are not."

Hal was going in to talk to Farmer Bluff, but Maggie stopped him.

"Wait a bit," said she; "the doctor's there just now."

So Hal went round with her to have a word with his friend Blazer.

It was very pretty in the garden now. The wood was emerald green with
the young foliage, and ferns were springing up through the carpet of
dead leaves, uncrumpling their pale brown fronds in the sunlight that
fell on them through the lacy branches of the beech and hornbeam trees.

Maggie had already learnt to leap the ditch. "Though mother says I
mustn't stray into the wood," said she, "for fear of getting into
mischief. So I just keep close at hand, and fancy that I'm far away.
It's such a pity, too, my Uncle Bluff won't have the garden planted. He
says the rabbits come across the ditch, and eat whatever grows. I mean
to watch for them."

Indoors the doctor was talking in this sort of strain to Farmer Bluff.
"Fact is, farmer, this gout is mounting to your stomach as fast as it
can go; and if once it gets there, ten chances to one no power on earth
will get it out. You'll die of it, that's all."

Farmer Bluff looked scared. "Is there nothing you can do to stop it,
doctor?" asked he piteously.

"Do? When for the last five years and more you've undone every attempt
I've made? Look at that!" And Dr. Winthrop pointed to the mug. "If you
will drink beer, as I am sick of telling you, why, you must abide by
the consequences. Dash my wigs!" exclaimed the doctor, warming up. "If
I'd a mug of solid gold that made a fool of me, I'd throw it in the
ditch and bury it."

In this strain, the doctor talked at him for ten minutes or more; then
he went away. And Hal, seeing that the coast was clear, went in. But
Farmer Bluff was unusually glum that morning. Do what Hal would, he
could not cheer him up; for the poor old sinner had got it on his mind
that he was doomed to die.

"If I were you," said Hal to Maggie, as he went out at the gate, "I
think I'd sing to Farmer Bluff. I can't, you know, or else I would; but
I can manage talking best. He's right down in the dumps to-day. I can't
think why—unless it is because he had to leave the farm."

A few days later told them, though. Gout doesn't attack the more
important parts of the body without letting a man know it. Farmer Bluff
was in such fearful pain that Dr. Winthrop was sent for in a hurry.

The doctor shook his head.

"He's had no beer since you were here last, sir," said Mrs. Rust. "He
called for it no end of times; but I refused to bring it in."

"You did quite right," the doctor said. "When grown-up patients won't
be sensible, they must be treated like children."

He little knew the language Farmer Bluff had hurled at her for carrying
out these orders for his good.

Farmer Bluff was watching Dr. Winthrop's expression very anxiously.

"Is there any change—for the better, doctor?" asked he eagerly. "What
can be the cause of all this pain?"

The doctor shook his head again.

"You mustn't think," said he, "that three days can cure disease brought
on by the habits of a lifetime. I will do my best for you; but you have
killed yourself."

Hal met Dick that day.

"It's a pity," said he. "Dr. Winthrop says that Farmer Bluff can't
possibly get well. The gout has reached his stomach. It's all through
drinking too much beer."

Then he went on to the cottage to talk to Farmer Bluff in his own
simple, sympathetic way. "I'm very sorry," he told him gently,
"especially as it's your own fault. That makes so much worse of it."

"In this world and the next," put in Farmer Bluff gloomily. "But it's
too late to talk about that now."

"Too late!—Why?" asked Hal.

But although Farmer Bluff knew pretty well his own reasons for saying
so, he did not answer the boy's question.

So Hal went on: "I don't at all think it's too late. 'Never too late to
mend' is a good saying; but 'Never too late to repent' seems to me a
better. Because, you see, if what Dr. Winthrop says is right, your gout
won't let you mend; but Jesus said that everybody who repented in their
heart, would be accepted and forgiven."

"I've tried singing to him," Maggie told Hal, when he came downstairs
again. "I know a lot of hymns; and he likes it too."

Hal looked about for Dick, when he got outside.

But at school, Dick had made a lot of new acquaintances who were not
likely to know anything about the adventure with Bill; so he preferred
their company, and had gone off birds'-nesting with some of them.

Arrived on the terrace, Hal went straight to the Squire's library.
He found his grandfather sitting in his great arm-chair, with his
gold-rimmed spectacles upon his nose, reading a big folio volume that
lay open on his knee; for the Squire was rather fond of learned books.
He drew his glasses off as Hal came in, and laid them on the page.

"Grandfather," said Hal, in a tone of great concern, "the doctor says
that Farmer Bluff will have to die. The gout has got so far it can't be
stopped."

"It's as bad as that, is it?" replied the Squire. "I thought as much,"
added he, half to himself.

Hal sat down upon the edge of a chair with a dejected air.

"It serves him right," added the Squire.

Hal looked up quickly, as if about to speak; then changed his mind and
relapsed into silence again. He was disappointed. He had cherished the
hope of being able to convince Farmer Bluff of his folly; and he had
failed.

But his grandfather did not quite understand this.

"It's his own fault," said he; "he had fair warning."

Hal shifted again, and looked like speaking, but got no further. There
was a big lump in his throat.

"All the arguing in the world wouldn't do it, if tweaking and twinging
wouldn't," continued the Squire, mentally referring to his own and the
doctor's discourses, together with the pains and premonitions of the
disease itself. "It's astonishing what a man will bear, rather than
give up his besetting sin."

"I did my best," added Hal, thinking of nobody's efforts but his own.
"I spoke out plainly too."

"Ah!" said the Squire, suddenly remembering those words of Hal's when
first he learnt that the bailiff was to be discharged. "You've been in
and out a good deal, I suppose, Hal; as you say, you've done your best."

"But, you see, it hasn't saved him," rejoined Hal mournfully. "That's
the worst of it."

"It's very sad," said the Squire, after a pause, during which he put
his gold-rimmed glasses on, and took them off again. "It's always sad
when a man reaps the fruits of his own folly."

"Especially when he has had fair warning," added Hal, "and might have
done so differently."

"I must go and see him one of these mornings, I suppose," observed the
Squire presently.

The next few days made a great difference in Farmer Bluff. When the
Squire went, he found the downstairs room vacant.

"Where's Farmer Bluff?" asked Hal uneasily.

"Upstairs," answered Maggie, who had opened the door for them. "He
can't get out of bed any more."

And she ran to ask if they could go up.

"Well, Bluff," said the Squire kindly, as he approached the bedside;
"I'm sorry to see you like this."

"They tell me it's my own fault, sir," said the sufferer meekly.

Somehow, he had come to swear less and less since Maggie had been
there. "My own fault!" he repeated, with a sigh.

"It's a hard thing to tell a man, when he's on his death-bed,"' said
the Squire gently.

"But I suppose it's true," rejoined Farmer Bluff.

"And it's better that a man should know it's true," the Squire added
solemnly; "for then he has a chance of taking comfort from the
assurance that 'if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to
forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'
Though our sins and folly may have destroyed our body, the moment
that we cast them from us by our faith in Him whom God sent to be our
Saviour, they lose power to harm our soul; and the only condition
of forgiveness and acceptance is we cease to cherish our sins, and,
trusting in Jesus, seek to be restored."

Farmer Bluff was silent. Perhaps his conscience told him it was less
the sin that he was sorry for than the consequences it had brought.

"You weren't far wrong, you see, sir, when you turned me out," said he
presently. "It was a hard blow, but I deserved it. I had no right to
murmur; for I wasn't equal to my work."

"And I didn't leave you unprovided for," the Squire added kindly. "I
chose this place, too, because I thought you would be happier near the
wood than anywhere. I see you've brought the dogs here, too."

"Grip and Blazer, sir; yes. I can't make out what's got 'em both
to-day."

The two dogs were barking "fit to fetch the house down," as the farmer
put it. They had been barking so all night, and ever since sunset the
evening before; so he told the Squire.

"I heard old Dobson throw his window up once or twice," said he; "and
at last he took his gun and had a look about, to see if it was anybody
prowling round."

"Perhaps it was only rabbits," suggested the Squire. "I've heard Dobson
say that even hares will come into these gardens on moonlight nights."

"They will, sir, I can certify," said Farmer Bluff, amused for the
minute; "though they won't find much to pay 'em here. I wasn't going to
have the ground planted, for them to eat up every shoot that grew."

Hal was standing by the casement during this conversation, now watching
his grandfather and the farmer, now looking out of the window at the
kennel, where Blazer was jumping and plunging angrily, tearing the air
with his furious cries. Just as Farmer Bluff finished speaking, he
uttered a sudden exclamation.

"Grandfather!" cried he. "Blazer has burst his collar, and got free!"

At the same instant, the barking had ceased, and Blazer, without a
scrap of chain about him, had gone racing down the clearing through the
wood. The next minute Maggie's voice was heard on the staircase.

"Uncle Bluff! Uncle Bluff!" cried she, as she climbed. "Blazer has got
loose and run away!"

In the excitement of the moment, Farmer Bluff made a desperate effort
to get to a sitting posture; but that was beyond him, and he earned
nothing but pain for his exertion.

"He's run right away," said Maggie, appearing in the doorway with an
agitated face.

"Oh! He'll come back right enough," returned her uncle, lifting his
head to look at her. "The mischief is—mercy on any one he should meet.
And I don't know the man, except old Dobson, who dare go after him."

"I dare," said Maggie bravely; "I'll go to the ditch and call."

"No, child," cried Farmer Bluff; but quick as lightning Maggie was
gone. "Stop her!" roared he, as she sped downstairs and out at the
house door. "He'll knock her down! He'll kill the child!"

"Not he!" said Hal. "Not Blazer! He's far too fond of Mag. She's not
afraid of him; no more am I. I'll go too."

But the Squire stopped him.

"I'd hardly dare go myself," said Farmer Bluff. "Hark! There she's
calling him!"

And the little girl's voice was heard ringing out clear and
loud—"Blazer, Blazer; where have you rushed off to? You bad old doggie,
you!"

The Squire had his head out of the casement, calling her to come in;
but Blazer had heard her voice and come back with a rush, leaping the
ditch and bounding up to lick her hand, then crouching at her feet,
whilst Maggie stood firm as a rock, and fearlessly patted his broad
head. Then he leapt the ditch again, and barked, and looked towards the
child; then came back, and jumped around her; then back to the ditch,
as if he wanted her to go with him.

"Well, I'll leap the ditch then, Blazer," they heard her cry; "if that
is what you want." And stepping back a pace or two, she took a run, and
jumped it clean and clear.

"That was a good leap, my lass," the Squire called approvingly. "Surely
she's not town-bred, Bluff," added he, drawing in his head to look back
towards the bed.

"She is, sir," answered Farmer Bluff; "and such a white-faced thing,
too, when her mother brought her here."

"Well, come!" rejoined the Squire cheerily. "There's something to set
off against your leaving the farm. If you hadn't had to come up here,
I suppose she'd be white-faced yet. But what about this dog? I don't
see how he's going to be got upon the chain again. The collar is broken
too."

"There used to be another collar about the place," Farmer Bluff
answered.

For the brute had always seemed so fierce, they had not dared to depend
upon a single one; but where it was, he could not say—though Mrs. Rust
might know when she came in—nor who would undertake to put it on.

"I shouldn't be afraid if I could manage it," said Hal, who had
reluctantly obeyed his grandfather's desire that he would not go down.
"But you see my crutches are so in the way."

The Squire shook his head.

"Better wait till old Dobson's home," suggested Farmer Bluff. "The dog
knows him."

"Only," put in Hal, "just think how frightened Mrs. Rust will be when
she comes in."

Meanwhile Blazer was still rushing madly to and fro. Far from satisfied
with having got Maggie across the ditch, he was evidently trying hard
to prevail on her to go into the wood with him. If she ran a step or
two he seemed so pleased, but as soon as she stopped, he barked and
leapt, and tugged at her dress, making every sign dog ingenuity could
suggest to coax her into going forward down the track.

"There's something at the bottom of all that, depend upon it," said
the Squire, walking to the foot of the bed. "Blazer has found somebody
or something; and he wants to show his find. I shell venture down and
follow his lead. He knows me pretty well."

"He knows me better, grandfather," said Hal.

"We'll both go," said the Squire, setting off towards the stairs, Hal
following.

A ditch was an obstacle both for the old gentleman and the cripple boy,
neither of whom could leap like the little London maid. There was a
way out of the difficulty, however, by going round to the gate of the
wood; and in a very few minutes, the Squire and Hal had joined Maggie,
and were following Blazer down the track, much to the jealousy of Grip,
who stood watching from his kennel in the front garden, and uttering a
series of short, snappish barks, by way of protest at this unfairness.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVI.

A RUNAWAY'S STORY.

THE old Squire had always made a point of having a civil word for both
dogs whenever he went to the farm; so that, as he said, both Blazer
and Grip were tolerably familiar with him. On the present occasion,
however, Blazer was too much delighted at getting his own way to show
any disagreeable tempers. He did nothing but run and leap and bark in
an ecstasy of triumph, looking back from time to time, to make sure
that he was being followed, and exerting himself ten times more than
was necessary, in his efforts to incite them to speed.

But the uneven surface of the track was less easy for Hal's crutches
than the open road; and Blazer had to be content with rather slow
progress, whilst Maggie ran backwards and forwards, jumping and
calling, thoroughly enjoying the fun, and doing her best, by her own
excitement, to keep up Blazer's.

They had not proceeded very far in this manner, however, when Blazer
changed his course, darting in amongst the undergrowth.

The Squire pulled up.

"Now, Blazer, old boy," said he, "that isn't just the sort of place an
old gentleman finds convenient to scramble through. What do you want
with it?"

But the dog was evidently in real earnest. There was no mistake about
that. He trotted on a little way ahead, then turned and leapt and
barked, and came bounding back, jumping round the Squire, and all but
beckoning him to come.

"What a pity he can't speak!" exclaimed Hal, looking up into his
grandfather's face, as if to read his thoughts.

"We must contrive to go with him somehow, that's certain," returned
the Squire, stopping to consider; "or, at least, I must. He has found
something, and he wants to show it us. Hal, you wait here with Maggie;
no, stay! Let Maggie come with me, in case I want a messenger."

And putting one shoulder to the hazel bushes, to Blazer's infinite
delight, the old gentleman commenced pushing his way in amongst them,
Maggie following close upon his heels.

A shade of disappointment came over Hal's face. This was how he had to
feel his affliction every now and then. But Hal was not a boy to stop
at disappointment. He only stood still a minute or so; then turning,
set off down the track again, to search for an opening by which to
reach the spot whither the dog was leading them—sure, at all events, of
knowing by his barks the direction that they took.

He had but just lighted on a cross track when the barking ceased. They
must have reached the place.

Hal stopped to listen just an instant, then set forward, breathing
fast, and flushing with his exertions to lose no time, and hoping that
as Blazer had led them off in a slanting direction, this track, which
crossed the cartway at right angles, would converge with their path.

Presently, however, the track ended in a sort of winding path, which
seemed to lead into thicker and thicker tangle. Hal stopped, perplexed,
and listened, but could hear no sound. Next minute, however, Blazer's
bark sounded out again, short and sharp; once, twice, thrice. Hal set
forward instantly, with increased vigour, and after following the
windings of the path for a short distance, he was able to distinguish
voices, whilst every now and then Blazer gave a sharp bark, as if to
call him on.

All on a sudden, an idea struck Hal, and resting on his crutches to get
breath, he called Blazer's name with all his might.

The plan succeeded. Blazer heard, and gave an answering bark. In a few
seconds, Hal heard the crackling of the dry leaves under his paws; then
out he rushed along the path. They were not far off, and Hal was going
straight for them. He hurried on after the dog.

"Where are you, grandfather?" called he, when he got near enough to
distinguish the Squire's voice.

"Here!" was the reply.

And at the same instant, Hal spied Maggie's pink apron through the
bushes.

Hal paused a second; then pushing one crutch in among the twigs, he
made his way to where the others were.

The Squire was bending over something on the ground, Maggie kneeling by
his side. "He's opening his eyes!" cried she, as Hal came up.

And there, to his astonishment, half-raised upon the turf mound at the
foot of a hazel clump, lay the long-lost runaway, Bill the Kicker.

Bill drew a long breath and rolled his eyes round; then the lids
dropped to again.

Maggie gave vent to an exclamation of mingled pity and disappointment,
and the Squire observed,—

"It's evidently a case of starvation. From the look of him, I should
imagine that the young scamp has kept away as long as he could hold
out. If Blazer hadn't happened to find him, he would have died here
before night."

The sound of voices roused Bill again. His eyes opened, and he drew
another long breath. Then suddenly a look of bewilderment came over his
face. "Where 'm I got to?" he asked excitedly.

But before any one could answer, he had recognised the Squire. The
bewildered look gave place to one of terror, and Bill made a desperate
effort at scrambling to his feet; but he had long since reached the
point when starved and exhausted nature could do no more. He only fell
back upon the bank with a sick and dizzy sensation, and his eyelids
closed again.

"Lie still, my boy," said the Squire kindly. "You must have something
to eat. You're starving."

Bill put his hand to his waist-belt. He had ceased to remember that
he was hungry; but the Squire's words brought back the craving. He
recollected how he had felt before he swooned.

"Have either of you anything eatable about you?"' asked the Squire,
turning to Hal and Maggie. "A sweetmeat, or a bit of biscuit; anything
that he could suck or munch."

Hal had not. He was not a boy who cared for sweets. Maggie, however,
produced a chocolate drop, given her over the counter by the grocer's
man.

"But what is that when he's starving!" exclaimed she.

"All the better," returned the Squire. "In his present state, it would
be dangerous to give him much. But you may run home," added he, as
Bill eagerly took the tiny mouthful and crunched it up. "Run home—you
can find your way?—And bring cup of bread or biscuit sopped in milk—or
water, if you can't find milk; be as quick as ever you can. The poor
boy is nearly starved."

Some good people would have tried to get Bill's story out of him
whilst Maggie was running for the food. But Hal's grandfather did no
such thing, having too much common sense, as well as too much pity for
the boy. Besides, his story was so plainly told by every feature of
his face, and every inch of tattered garment that he wore. His whole
appearance seemed to say, in language that no eyes could fail to read,
that it was one thing to get into a scrape and run away in order to
escape the consequence, but quite another thing to keep decent clothes
upon his back, and pick up food enough to hold the wolf at bay. In
short, poor Bill had learnt the value of a home.

[Illustration: THE SQUIRE FINDS BILL THOROUGHLY EXHAUSTED.]

Meanwhile, Maggie had scrambled back to the cart-track, making fearful
havoc of her zephyr apron in her haste; and had torn home, panting and
breathless, taking the ditch at a bound, and astonishing beyond measure
her mother, who was just returning up the garden path. On learning what
had happened, however, Mrs. Rust quickly made the pap, and, calling up
the stairs to Farmer Bluff, set off with Maggie to the spot.

"I made it warm, sir," said she, as she knelt down by Bill's side to
feed him from the cup.

Bill took it eagerly, and would have made short work of it, had he
not been restrained. It quickly revived him, however, and he sat up,
looking very much as if he would like to run away again.

"You'll be all the better for that, my boy," said Mrs. Rust, standing
back a step or two with the empty cup in her hand.

But Bill felt rather foolish. He looked from one to another of the
group round him, and said nothing.

The Squire was the first to speak. "Well, young man," said he,
possessing himself of his gold-headed cane, which he had laid down
beside Bill on first stooping to examine him; "I'm glad to see you've
come home again. And I hope you've had enough of a lesson about the
folly of running away."

Bill hung his head. "I don't know as I'm going home," said he, in a
low, dogged tone of voice.

"Oh! Don't you?" said the Squire. "I'll take care of that."

"Likely!" continued Bill defiantly. "To have the strap."

"Perhaps, if you behave well, and answer all I want to know," returned
the Squire, "I may feel inclined to beg you off the strapping—though I
must confess that you deserve it every bit."

Bill subsided and looked down, waiting in sullen silence to be
questioned, whilst Maggie drew a little nearer, moving her eyes rapidly
from him to the Squire with lively interest.

"Why did you run away?" commenced the Squire.

Maggie's eyes went back to Bill.

"'Cause he told me to," said Bill.

"He?" rejoined the Squire. "Who's he?"

"Him what I stole the egg for," answered Bill. "Dick Crozier, sir."

"Dick Crozier!" exclaimed Hal and his grandfather in a breath. "Mind
you're not inventing lies," added the Squire. "Why, dear me," he
continued half-aside, "I had fancied him a better lad. It seems
incredible!"

"He said as you was comin' round a purpose to 'indemnifight' me," Bill
went on; "an' if he was me, he wouldn't stand still to be took."

What Bill had supposed this terrible word to mean, it would be hard to
determine; but he had kept on repeating it to himself all the way he
had run, until it had got so mixed up as to come out entirely wrong.
"Nor I wasn't going to neither," added Bill, with the defiant look
again.

"How came you to steal an egg for him?" asked the Squire next.

"'Cause I wanted sixpence," answered Bill. "But he's as bad as me,"
added Bill eagerly. "He hadn't ought to ha' taken what I'd stole. I've
heard my father say so once."

"Quite right," rejoined the Squire. "Receiving stolen goods is
punishable by law. He sucked this egg, then, I suppose; and gave you
sixpence for it."

Then came out the history of how Bill's evil conscience had brought
about the smashing of the eggs; and how, in self-defence, he had
inflicted on the unfortunate goose the injuries that had caused her
death. "I didn't want to hurt her, sir," said Bill; "but when one o'
them things is after you—"

"It's rather terrible, I must admit," returned the Squire, hardly able
to restrain a smile. "Then you didn't get your sixpence after all?"

"Yes, I did though," replied Bill quickly, with a cunning grin. "He guv
it me to keep from splitting, 'cause he knew as how if I was caught, I
was bound to let out who I'd stole it for. If it hadn't been for that,"
said Bill, whose meal had pretty well revived him by this time, "and t'
other, what I got for bein' made a pictur' of, I'm blest if I'd 'a' had
a rag o' flesh on any o' my bones by now—grub's that hard to get."

"Ah! Recollect that, next time that you're tempted to do wrong,"
returned the Squire solemnly.

"But he was just as bad as me," repeated Bill, who seemed inclined to
take comfort in companionship in his disgrace.

He found, however, that the Squire entertained a different view of
the matter. "Gently," said he. "You had the first of it; for you put
temptation in his way, by offering to undertake the theft. But now, one
question more. What did you want the sixpence for?"

Bill hung his head and looked more than half a mind not to answer; but
he changed his mind, thinking that it was sure to come out, and that,
all things considered, he had better enjoy the merit of making a clean
breast of the whole affair.

"'Cause I wanted a new knife," said he; "and so I'd borrowed sixpence
from the rent."


"You've got to beg me off the strapping, sir," said Bill, as they set
off back towards the cartway, a few minutes later; "'cause you promised
if I answered square."

"And when I promise anything, I keep my word," replied the Squire,
rather pleased than otherwise with the boy's straightforwardness. He
took occasion by the way, however, to administer a lecture on the
wickedness of breaking in through hedges after other people's property.
"If Blazer had caught you there, instead of half dead in this wood,"
said he, "he would have shown you little mercy, you may make quite
sure."

Bill also related by degrees a lot of his adventures since leaving
home; how he had escaped along the riverbank, running till his breath
gave out, and walking till he nearly dropped, to reach the town before
the night came on; how he had slept under porches or in doorways, in
wind and wet and darkness, frightened, cold, and wretched, night after
night; and how, after his food and money were all gone, he had begged
for work, and gone from door to door to ask a piece of bread, until he
grew so weak and wild with living on the scanty crusts he got, that he
began to wish he had not run away.

"Leastways," said Bill, "I wished I hadn't stole the eggs."

And he went on to tell how at the last he had determined to come back,
but had not had the courage to face his parents' anger; and so had
wandered on into the wood, and round to the back of the two cottages,
where he was about to beg food, when to his surprise, he spied Blazer
chained up, and Blazer spied him.

"And for the life of me I durstn't ask," said Bill; "so I cut away into
the wood, and there I tumbled down."

"And there you would have died," the Squire added, "if Blazer had not
broken loose and followed on your track, and found you where you lay,
you poor silly boy. Well, you have had your punishment; and I can
promise you, your parents will be glad enough to see you back. Only
mind you show that you are worthy of forgiveness by making a fresh
start."

Arrived at Farmer Bluffs, Bill was glad to sit down quietly and have
some more to eat, whilst the Squire went and saw Blazer's collar mended
up. As for Blazer, he came quite gently to take a biscuit and a lump of
sugar out of Maggie's hand, and then submitted to have the chain put
on; after which, he retired into his kennel, and lay down to rest.

Then the Squire, having directed Mrs. Rust to search the other collar
out, or get a new one made, set out with Bill, to see him safe into his
parents' hands.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVII.

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."



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVIII.

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."

[Illustration]

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."



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIX.

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.

[Illustration]

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."



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XX.

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.






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