Paul put his hands down to the bottom of his pockets. They were all one hole, and that sad lost foolish look came over his wan face again, and startled Mr. Cope.
The boys grinned, but Charles Hayward stepped forward. ‘Please, Sir, let me take care of it for him.’
Mr. Cope and Paul both agreed, and Mr. Cope kept Charles for a moment to say, as he gave him a shilling, ‘Look here, Charles, do you think you can manage to get that poor fellow a tolerable breakfast on Saturday before he goes? And if you could make him look a little more decent?’
Charles pulled his forelock and looked knowing. In fact, there was a little plot among these good-natured boys, and Harold King was in it too, though he was not of the Confirmation party, and said and thought he was very glad of it. He did not want to bind himself to be so very good. Silly boy; as if Baptism had not bound him already!
Mrs. Hayward put her head out as Paul passed her cottage, and called out, ‘I say, you Paul, you come in to-morrow evening with our Charlie and Jim, and I’ll wash you when I washes them.’
Good Mrs. Hayward made a mistake that the more delicate-minded Mrs. King would never have made. Perhaps if a pail of warm water and some soap had been set before Paul, he might actually have washed himself; but he was much too big and too shamefaced a lad to fancy sharing a family scrubbing by a woman, whatever she might do to her own sons. But considering the size of the Hayward cottage, and the way in which the family lived, this sort of notion was not likely to come into the head of the good-natured mother.
So she and her boys were much vexed when Paul did not make his appearance, and she made a face of great disgust when Charles said, ‘Never mind, Mother, my white frock will hide no end of dirt.’
‘I shall have to wash it over again before you can wear it, I know,’ said Mrs. Hayward. ‘Not as I grudges the trouble; he’s a poor lost orphant, that it’s a shame to see so treated.’
Mrs. Hayward did not know that she was bestowing the cup of cold water, as well as being literally ready to wash the feet of the poor disciple.
A clean body is a type and token of a pure mind; and though the lads of Friarswood did not quite perceive this, there was a feeling about them of there being something unnatural and improper, and a disgrace to Friarswood, in any one going up to the Bishop in such a condition as Paul. Especially, as Charles Hayward said, when he was the pick of the whole lot. Perhaps Charles was right, for surely Paul was single-hearted in his hope of walking straight to his one home, Heaven, and he had been doing no other than bearing his cross, when he so patiently took the being ‘buffeted’ when he did well, and faithfully served his froward master.
But Paul was not to escape the outward cleansing, and from one of the very last people from whom it would have been expected. He had just pulled his bed of hay down over him, and was trying to curl himself up so as to stop his teeth from chattering, with Cæsar on his feet, when the dog growled, and a great voice lowered to a gruff whisper, said, ‘Come along, young un!’
‘I’m coming,’ cried Paul.
Though it was not Boldre’s voice, it had startled him terribly; he was so much used to ill-treatment, that he expected a savage blow every moment.
But the great hand that closed on him, though rough, was not unkind.
‘Poor lad, how he quakes!’ said John Farden’s voice. ‘Don’t ye be afeard, it’s only me.’
‘Nobody got at the horses?’ cried Paul.
‘No, no; only I ain’t going to have you going up to yon big parson all one muck-heap! Come on, and make no noise about it.’
Paul did not very well know what was going to befall him, but he did not feel unsafe with John Farden, and besides, his lank frame was in the grasp of that big hand like a mouse in the power of a mastiff. So he let himself be hauled down the ladder, into an empty stall, where, behold, there was a dark lantern (which had been at bad work in its time), a pail, a brush, a bit of soap, and a ragged towel.
John laid hold of him much as Alfred in his page days used to do of Lady Jane’s little dog when it had to be washed, but Puck had the advantage in keeping on his shaggy coat all the time, and in being more gently handled, whereas Farden scrubbed with such hearty good-will, that Paul thought his very skin would come off. But he had undergone the like in the workhouse, and he knew how to accommodate himself to it; and when his rough bath was over, though he was very sore, and stiff, and chilly, he really felt relieved, and more respectable than he had done for many months, only rather sorry he must put on his filthy old rags again; and he gave honest John more thanks than might have been expected.
The Confirmation was to be at eleven o’clock, at Elbury, and John had undertaken his morning’s work, so that Mr. Shepherd grudgingly consented to spare him, knowing that all the other farmers of course did the same, and that there would be a cry of shame if he did not.
Paul had just found his way down the ladder in the morning, with thoughts going through his mind that to him this would be the coming of the Comforter, and he was sure he wanted comfort; and that for some hours of this day at least, he should be at peace from rude words and blows, when he heard a great confusion of merry voices and suppressed laughing, and saw the heads of some of the lads bobbing about near Mrs. King’s garden.
Was it time already to set off, he wondered, looking up to the sun; but then those boys seemed to be in an uproarious state such as did not suit his present mood, nor did he think Mr. Cope would consider it befitting. He would have let them go by, feeling himself such a scare-crow as they might think a blot upon them; but he remembered that Charles Hayward had his ticket, and as he looked at himself, he doubted whether he should be let into a strange church.
‘Paul! Paul Blackthorn!’ called Harold, with a voice all aglee.
‘Well!’ said Paul, ‘what do you want of me?’
‘Come on, and you’ll see.’
‘I don’t want a row. Is Charlie Hayward there? Just ask him for my card, and don’t make a work.’
‘He’ll give it you if you’ll come for it,’ said Harold; and seeing there was no other chance, Paul slowly came. Harold led him to the stable, where just within the door stood a knot of stout hearty boys, snorting with fun, hiding their heads on each other’s shoulders, and bending their buskined knees with merriment.
‘Now then!’ cried Charles Hayward, and he had got hold of the only button that held Paul’s coat together.
Paul was bursting out with something, but George Grant’s arms were round his waist, and his hands were fumbling at his fastenings. They were each one much stronger than he was now, and they drowned his voice with shouts of laughter, while as fast as one garment was pulled off, another was put on.
‘Mind, you needn’t make such a work, it bain’t presents,’ said George Grant, ‘only we won’t have them asking up at Elbury if we’ve saved the guy to bring in.’
‘It is a present, though, old Betty Bushel’s shirt,’ said Charles Hayward. ‘She said she’d throw it at his head if he brought it back again; but the frock’s mine.’
‘And the corduroys is mine,’ said George Grant. ‘My! they be a sight too big in the band! Run in, Harold, and see if your mother can lend us a pin.’
‘And the waistcoat is my summer one,’ said Fred Bunting. ‘He’s too big too; why, Paul, you’re no better than a natomy!’
‘Never mind, my white frock will hide it all,’ said Charles, ‘and here’s Ned’s cap for you. Oh! and it’s poor Alfred’s boots.’
Paul could not make up his mind to walk all the way in the boots, but to satisfy the boys he engaged to put them on as soon as they were getting to Elbury.
‘My! he looks quite respectable,’ cried Charles, running back a little way to look at him.
‘I wonder if Mr. Cope will know him?’ exclaimed Harold, jumping leap-frog fashion on George Grant’s back.
‘The maids will take him for some strange gentleman,’ exclaimed Jem Hayward; ‘and why, bless me, he’s washed, I do declare!’ as a streak of light from the door fell on Paul’s visage.
‘No, you don’t mean it,’ broke out Charles. ‘Let’s look! yes, I protest, why, the old grime between his eyes is gone after all. How did you manage that, Paul?’
Paul rather uneasily mumbled something about John Farden, and the boys clapped their hands, and shouted, so that Alfred, who well knew what was going on, raised himself on his pillow and laughed. It was rather blunt treatment for feelings if they were tender, but these were rough warm-hearted village boys, and it was all their good-nature.
‘And where’s the grub?’ asked Charles importantly, looking about.
‘Oh, not far off,’ said Harold; and in another moment, he and Charles had brought in a black coffee-pot, a large mug, some brown sugar, a hunch of bread, some butter, and a great big smoking sausage.
Paul looked at it, as if he were not quite sure what to do with it. One boy proceeded to turn in an inordinate quantity of sugar, another to pour in the brown coffee that sent out a refreshing steam enough to make any one hungry. George Grant spread the butter, cut the sausage in half, put it on the bread, and thrust it towards Paul.
‘Eat it—s—s,’ said Charles, patting Paul on the back. ‘Mr. Cope said you was to, and you must obey your minister.’
‘Not all for me?’ said Paul, not able to help a pull at the coffee, the mug warming his fingers the while.
‘Oh yes, we’ve all had our breakfastisses,’ said George Grant; ‘we are only come to make you eat yours like a good boy, as Mr. Cope said you should.’
They stood round, looking rather as they would have done had Paul been an elephant taking his meal in a show; but not one would hear of helping him off with a crumb out of Mr. Cope’s shilling. George Grant was a big hungry lad, and his breakfast among nine at home had not been much to speak of; but savoury as was the sausage, and perfumy as was the coffee, he would have scorned to take a fragment from that stranger, beg him to do so as Paul might; and what could not be eaten at that time, with a good pint of the coffee, was put aside in a safe nook in the stable to be warmed up for supper.
That morning’s work was not a bad preparation for Confirmation after all.
Harold had stayed so long, that he had to jump on the pony and ride his fastest to be in time at the post. He was very little ashamed of not being among those lads, and felt as if he had the more time to enjoy himself; but there were those who felt very sad for him—Alfred, who would have given so much to receive the blessing; and Ellen, whose confirmation was very lonely and melancholy without either of her brothers; besides his mother, to whom his sad carelessness was such constant grief and heart-ache.
Ellen was called for by the carriage from the Grange, and sat up behind with the kitchen-maid, who was likewise to be confirmed. Little Miss Jane sat inside in her white dress and veil, looking like a snowdrop, Alfred thought, as his mother lifted him up to the window to see her, as the carriage stood still while Ellen climbed to her seat.
In the course of the morning, Mrs. King made time to read over the Confirmation Service with Alfred, to think of the blessing she was receiving, and to pray that it might rest upon her through life. And they entreated, too, that Harold might learn to care for it, and be brought to a better mind.
‘O Mother,’ said Alfred, after lying thinking for sometime, ‘if I thought Harold would take up for good and be a better boy to you than I have been, I should not mind anything so much.’
And there was Harold all the time wondering whether he should be able to get out in the evening to have a lark with Dick and Jesse.
Ellen was set down by-and-by. Her colour was very deep, but she looked gentle and happy, and the first thing she did was to bend over Alfred, kiss him, and say how she wished he had been there.
Then, when she had been into her own room, she came back and told them about the beautiful large Elbury Church, and the great numbers of young girls and boys on the two sides of the aisle, and of the Bishop seated in the chair by the altar, and the chanted service, with the organ sounding so beautiful.
And then how her heart had beat, and she hardly dared to speak her vow, and how she trembled when her turn came to go up to the rail, but she said it was so comfortable to see Mr. Cope in his surplice, looking so young among the other clergymen, and coming a little forward, as if to count out and encourage his own flock. She was less frightened when she had met his kind eye, and was able to kneel down with a more quiet mind to receive the gift which had come down on the Day of Pentecost.
Alfred wanted to know whether she had seen Paul, but Ellen had been kneeling down and not thinking of other people, when the Friarswood boys went up. Only she had passed him on the way home, and seen that though he was lagging the last of the boys, he did not look dull and worn, as he had been doing lately.
Ellen had been asked to go to the Grange after church to-morrow evening, and drink tea there, in celebration of the Confirmation which the two young foster-sisters had shared.
Harold went to fetch her home at night, and they both came into the house fresh and glowing with the brisk frosty air, and also with what they had to tell.
‘O mother, what do you think? Paul Blackthorn is to go to the Grange to-morrow. My Lady wants to see him, and perhaps she will make Mr. Pound find some work for him about the farm.’
Harold jumped up and snapped his fingers towards the farm. ‘There’s for old Skinflint!’ said he; ‘not a chap in the place but will halloo for joy!’
‘Well, I am glad!’ said Mrs. King; ‘I didn’t think that poor lad would have held out much longer, winter weather and all. But how did my Lady come to hear of it?’
‘Oh, it seems she noticed him going to church in all his rags, and Mr. Cope told her who he was; so Miss Jane came and asked me all about him, and I told her what a fine scholar he is, and how shamefully the farmer and Boldre treat him, and how good he was to Alfred about the ointment, and how steady he is. And I told her about the boys dressing him up yesterday, and how he wouldn’t take a gift. She listened just as if it was a story, and she ran away to her grandmamma, and presently came back to say that the boy was to come up to-morrow after his work, for Lady Jane to speak to him.’
‘Well, at least, he has been washed once,’ said Mrs. King; ‘but he’s so queer; I hope he will have no fancies, and will behave himself.’
‘I’ll tackle him,’ declared Harold decidedly. ‘I’ve a great mind to go out this moment and tell him.’
Mrs. King prevented this; she persuaded Harold that Mrs. Shepherd would fly out at them if she heard any noise in the yard, and that it would be better for every one to let Paul alone till the morning.
Morning came, and as soon as Harold was dressed, he rushed to the farm-yard, but he could not find Paul anywhere, and concluded that he had been sent out with the cows, and would be back by breakfast-time.
As soon as he had brought home the post-bag, he dashed across the road again, but came back in a few moments, looking beside himself.
‘He’s gone!’ he said, and threw himself back in a chair.
‘Gone!’ cried Mrs. King and Ellen with one voice, quite aghast.
‘Gone!’ repeated Harold. ‘The farmer hunted him off this morning! Missus will have it that he’s been stealing her eggs, and that there was a lantern in the stable on Friday night; so they told him to be off with him, and he’s gone!’
‘Poor, poor boy! just when my Lady would have been the making of him!’ cried Ellen.
‘But where—which way is he gone?’ asked Mrs. King.
‘I might ride after him, and overtake him,’ cried Harold, starting up, ‘but I never thought to ask! And Mrs. Shepherd was ready to pitch into me, so I got away as soon as I could. Do you run over and ask, Ellen; you always were a favourite.’
They were in such an eager state, that Ellen at once sprang up, and hastily throwing on her bonnet, ran across the road, and tapped at Mrs. Shepherd’s open door, exclaiming breathlessly, ‘O Ma’am, I beg your pardon, but will you tell me where Paul Blackthorn is gone?’
‘Paul Blackthorn! how should I know?’ said Mrs. Shepherd crossly. ‘I’m not to be looking after thieves and vagabonds. He’s a come-by-chance, and he’s a go-by-chance, and a good riddance too!’
‘Oh but, Ma’am, my Lady wanted to speak to him.’
This only made Mrs. Shepherd the more set against the poor boy.
‘Ay, ay, I know—coming over the gentry; and a good thing he’s gone!’ said she. ‘The place isn’t to be harbouring thieves and vagrants, or who’s to pay the rates? My eggs are gone, I tell you, and who should take ’em but that lad, I’d like to know?’
‘Them was two rotten nest-eggs as I throwed away when I was cleaning the stable.’
‘Who told you to put in your word, John Farden?’ screamed Mrs. Shepherd, turning on him. ‘Ye’d best mind what ye’re about, or ye’ll be after him soon.’
‘No loss neither,’ muttered John, stopping to pick up his shovel.
‘And you didn’t see which way he was gone?’ asked Ellen, looking from the labourer to the farmer’s wife.
‘Farmer sent un off or ever I come,’ replied John, ‘or I’d ha’ gied un a breakfast.’
‘I’m sure I can’t tell,’ said Mrs. Shepherd, with a toss of her head. ‘And as to you, Ellen King, I’m surprised at you, running after a scamp like that, that you told me yourself was out of a prison.’
‘Oh but, Mrs. Shepherd—’
‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ interrupted Mrs. Shepherd; ‘and I wonder your mother allows it. But there’s nothing like girls now-a-days.’
Ellen thought John Farden grinned; and feeling as if nothing so shocking could ever happen to her again, she flew back, she hardly knew how, to her home, clapped the door after, and dropping into a chair as Harold had done, burst into such a fit of crying, that she could not speak, and only shook her head in answer to Harold’s questions as to how Paul was gone.
‘Oh, no one knew!’ she choked out among her sobs; ‘and Mrs. Shepherd—such things!’
Harold stamped his foot, and Mrs. King tried to soothe her. In the midst, she recollected that she could not bear her brothers to guess at the worst part of the ‘such things;’ and recovering herself a moment, she said, ‘No, no, they’ve driven him off! He’s gone, and—and, oh! Mother, Mrs. Shepherd will have it he’s a thief, and—and she says I said so.’
That was bad enough, and Ellen wept bitterly again; while her mother and Harold both cried out with surprise.
‘Yes—but—I did say I dare said he was out of a reformatory—and that she should remember it! Now I’ve taken away his character, and he’s a poor lost boy!’
Oh, idle words! idle words!
CHAPTER IX—ROBBING THE MAIL
There was no helping it! People must have their letters whether Paul Blackthorn were lost or not, and Harold was a servant of the public, and must do his duty, so after some exhortations from his mother, he ruefully rose up, hoping that he should not have to go to Ragglesford.
‘Yes, you will,’ said his mother, ‘and maybe to wait. Here’s a registered letter, and I think there are two more with money in them.’
‘To think,’ sighed Harold, as he mounted his pony, ‘of them little chaps getting more money for nothing, than Paul did in a month by working the skin off his bones!’
‘Don’t be discontented, Harold, on that score. Them little chaps will work hard enough by-and-by: and the money they have now is to train them in making a fit use of it then.’
Harold looked anxiously up and down the road for Paul, and asked Mr. Cope’s housekeeper whether he had been there to take leave. No; and indeed Harold would have been a little vexed if he had wished good-bye anywhere if not at home.
There was a fine white frost, and the rime hung thickly on every spray of the heavy branches of the dark firs and larches that overhung the long solitary lane between the Grange and Ragglesford, and fringed the park palings with crystals. Harold thought how cold poor Paul must be going on his way in his ragged clothes. The ice crackled under the pony’s feet as she trotted down Ragglesford Lane, and the water of the ford looked so cold, that Peggy, a very wise animal, turned her head towards the foot-bridge, a narrow and not very sound affair, over which Harold had sometimes taken her when the stream was high, and threatened to be over his feet.
Harold made no objection; but no sooner were all the pony’s four hoofs well upon the bridge, than at the other end appeared Dick Royston.
‘Hollo, Har’ld!’ was his greeting, ‘I’ve got somewhat to say to ye.’
‘D’ye know where Paul Blackthorn is?’ asked Harold.
‘Not I—I’m a traveller myself, you must know.’
‘You, going to cut?’ cried Harold.
‘Ay,’ said Dick, laying hold of the pony’s rein. ‘The police have been down at Rolt’s—stupid fellow left old gander’s feet about—Mrs. Barker swore to ’em ‘cause he’d had so many kicks and bites on common—Jesse’s took up and peached—I’ve been hiding about all night—precious cold it was, and just waiting, you see, to wish you good-bye.’
Harold, very much shocked, could have dispensed with his farewells, nor did he like the look of his eyes.
‘Thank you, Dick; I’m sorry—I didn’t think—but I’m after time—I wish you’d let go of Peggy.’
‘So that’s all you have to say to an old comrade!’ said Dick; ‘but, I say, Har’ld, I’m not going so. I must have some tin to take me to Portsmouth. I want to know what you’ve got in that there bag!’
‘You won’t have that; it’s the post. Let go, Dick;’ and he pushed the pony forward, but Dick had got her fast by the head. Harold looked round for help, but Ragglesford Lane was one of the loneliest places in the country. There was not a house for half a mile, and Lady Jane’s plantations shut in the road on either side.
‘I mean to have it,’ said Dick, looking coolly up into his face; ‘I mean to see if there’s any of the letters with a half-sovereign in ’em, that you tell us about.’
‘Dick, Dick, it would be robbing! For shame, Dick! What would become of Mother and me?’
‘That’s your look-out,’ said Dick; and he stretched out his hand for the bag. He was four years older than Harold, and much stouter.
Harold, with a ready move, chucked the bag round to his back, and shouted lustily in hopes that there might be a keeper in the woods, ‘Help! Thieves! He’s robbing the post!’
Dick’s hoarse laugh was all the answer. ‘That’ll do, my dear,’ he said; ‘now you’d best be quiet; I’d be loath to hurt you.’
For all answer, Harold, shouting all the time, dealt him a stroke right over the eyes and nose with his riding-switch, and made a great effort to force the pony on in hopes the blow might have made him slacken his hold. But though one moment Dick’s arm was thrown over his watering eyes, the other hand held the bridle as firmly as ever, and the next instant his fist dealt Harold such a blow, as nearly knocked out all his breath. Setting his teeth, and swearing an oath, Dick was pouncing on the boy’s arm, when from the road before them came bursting a meagre thing darting like a wild cat, which fell upon him, hallooing as loud as Harold.
Dick turned in fury, and let go the bridle. The pony backed in alarm. The new-comer was grappling with the thief, and trying to drag him aside. ‘On, on; go on, Har’ld!’ he shouted, but his strength was far from equal to Dick’s, who threw him aside on the hand-rail. Old rotten rail that it was, it crashed under the weight, and fell with both the boys into the water. Peggy dashed forward to the other side, where Harold pulled her up with much difficulty, and turned round to look at the robber and the champion. The fall was not far, nor the water deep, and they had both risen, and were ready to seize one another again in their rage. And now Harold saw that he who had come to his help was no other than Paul Blackthorn, who shouted loudly, ‘On, go on! I’ll keep him.’
‘He’ll kill you!’ screamed Harold, in despair, ready to push in between them with his horse; but at that moment cart-wheels were heard in the road, and Dick, shaking his fist, and swearing at them both, shook off Paul as if he had been a feather, and splashing out of the ford on the other side, leapt over the hedge, and was off through the plantations.
Paul more slowly crept up towards Harold, dripping from head to foot.
‘Paul! Paul! I’m glad I’ve found you!’ cried Harold. ‘You’ve saved the letters, man, and one was registered! Come along with me, up to the school.’
‘Nay, I’ll not do that,’ said Paul.
‘Then you’ll stay till I come back,’ said Harold earnestly; ‘I’ve got so much to tell you! My Lady sent for you. Our Ellen told her all about you, and you’re to go to her. Ellen was in such a way when she found you were off.’
‘Then she didn’t think I’d taken the eggs?’ said Paul.
‘She’d as soon think that I had,’ said Harold. ‘Why, don’t we all know that you’re one of the parson’s own sort? But what made you go off without a word to nobody?’
‘I don’t know. Every one was against me,’ said Paul; ‘and I thought I’d just go out of the way, and you’d forget all about me. But I never touched those eggs, and you may tell Mr. Cope so, and thank him for all his kindness to me.’
‘You’ll tell him yourself. You’re going home along with me,’ cried Harold. ‘There! I’ll not stir a step till you’ve promised! Why, if you make off now, ‘twill be the way to make them think you have something to run away for, like that rascal.’
‘Very well,’ said Paul, rather dreamily.
‘Then you won’t?’ said Harold. ‘Upon your word and honour?’
Paul said the words after him, not much as if he knew what he was about; and Harold, rather alarmed at the sound of the Grange clock striking, gave a cut to the pony, and bounded on, only looking back to see that Paul was seating himself by the side of the lane. Harold said to himself that his mother would not have liked to see him do so after such a ducking, but he knew that he was more tenderly treated than other lads, and with reason for precaution too; and he promised himself soon to be bringing Paul home to be dried and warmed.
But he was less speedy than he intended. When he arrived at the school, he had first to account to the servants for his being so late, and then he was obliged to wait while the owner of the registered letter was to sign the green paper, acknowledging its safe delivery.
Instead of having the receipt brought back to him, there came a message that he was to go up to tell the master and the young gentlemen all about the robbery.
So the servant led the way, and Harold followed a little shy, but more curious. The boys were in school, a great bare white-washed room, looking very cold, with a large arched window at one end, and forms ranged in squares round the hacked and hewed deal tables. Harold thought he should tell Alfred that the young gentlemen had not much the advantage of themselves in their schoolroom.
The boys were mostly smaller than he was, only those of the uppermost form being of the same size. There might be about forty of them, looking rather red and purple with the chilly morning, and all their eighty eyes, black or brown, blue or grey, fixed at once upon the young postman as he walked into the room, straight and upright, in his high stout gaiters over his cord trousers, his thick rough blue coat and red comforter, with his cap in his hand, his fair hair uncovered, and his blue eyes and rosy cheeks all the more bright for that strange morning’s work. He was a well-mannered boy, and made his bow very properly to Mr. Carter, the master, who sat at his high desk.
‘So, my little man,’ said the master, ‘I hear you’ve had a fight for our property this morning. You’ve saved this young gentleman’s birthday present of a watch, and he wants to thank you.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Harold; ‘but he’d have been too much for me if Paul hadn’t come to help. He’s a deal bigger than me.’
The boys all made a thumping and scuffling with their feet, as if to applaud Harold; and their master said, ‘Tell us how it was.’
Harold gave the account in a very good simple manner, only he did not say who the robber was—he did not like to do so—indeed, he would not quite believe it could be his old friend Dick. The boys clapped and thumped doubly when he came to the switching, and still more at the tumble into the water.
‘Do you know who the fellow was?’ asked Mr. Carter.
‘Yes, I knowed him,’ said Harold, and stopped there.
‘But you had rather not tell. Is that it?’
‘Please, Sir, he’s gone, and I wouldn’t get him into trouble.’
At this the school-boys perfectly stamped, and made signs of cheering.
‘And who is the boy that came to help you?’
‘Paul Blackthorn, Sir; he’s a boy from the Union who worked at Farmer Shepherd’s. He’s a right good boy, Sir; but he’s got no friends, nor no—nothing,’ said Harold, pausing ere he finished.
‘Why didn’t you bring him up with you?’ asked the master.
‘Please, Sir, he wouldn’t come.’
‘Well,’ said Mr. Carter, ‘you’ve behaved like a brave fellow, and so has your friend; and here’s something in token of gratitude for the rescue of our property.’
It was a crown piece.
‘And here,’ said the boy whose watch had been saved, ‘here’s half-a-crown. Shake hands, you’re a jolly fellow; and I’ll tell my uncle about you.’
Harold was a true Englishman, and of course his only answer could be, ‘Thank you, Sir, I only did my duty;’ and as the other boys, whose money had been rescued, brought forward more silver pledges of gratitude, he added, ‘I’ll take it to Paul—thank you, Sir—thank you, Sir.’
‘That’s right; you must share, my lad,’ said the school-master. ‘It is a reward for both of you.’
‘Thank you, Sir, it was my duty,’ repeated Harold, making his bow.
‘Sir, Sir, pray let us give him three cheers,’ burst out the head boy in an imploring voice.
Mr. Carter smiled and nodded; and there was such a hearty roaring and stamping, such ‘hip, hip, hurrah!’ bursting out again and again, that the windows clattered, and the room seemed fuller of noise than it could possibly hold. It is not quite certain that Mr. Carter did not halloo as loud as any of the boys.