The Project Gutenberg EBook of Our Frank, by Amy Walton This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Our Frank and other stories Author: Amy Walton Illustrator: RP Release Date: October 20, 2007 [EBook #23114] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR FRANK *** Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England Amy Walton "Our Frank" Story 1 -- Chapter 1. Our Frank—A Buckinghamshire Story. “From east to west, At home is best.” German proverb. It was a mild spring evening, and Mrs Frank Darvell was toiling slowly up W hiteleaf Hill on her way back from market. She had walked every step of the way there to sell her ducklings, and now the basket on her arm was heavy with the weight of various small grocery packets. Up till now she had not felt so tired, partly because she had been walking along the level high-road, and partly because the way had been beguiled by the chat of a friend; but after she had said good-night to her crony at the beginning of the village, and turned up the steep chalky road which led to the hills, her fatigue increased with every step, and the basket seemed heavier than ever. It was a very lonely mile she had to go before reaching home; up and up wound the rough white road, and then gave a sudden turn and ran along level a little while with dark woods on either side. Then up again, steeper than ever, till you reached the top of the hill, and on one side saw the plain beneath, dotted over with villages and church spires, and on the other hand wide sloping beech woods, which were just now delicately green with their young spring leaves. Mrs Darvell set her basket down on the ground when she reached this point, and drew a long breath; the worst of the walk was over now, and she thought with relief how good it would be to pull off her boots, and hoped that Frank had not forgotten to have the kettle on for tea. She presently trudged on again with renewed spirits, and in ten minutes more the faint blue smoke from a chimney caught her eye; that was neighbour Gunn’s cottage, and their own was close by. “And right thankful I be,” said Mrs Darvell to herself as she unlatched the little garden gate. The cottage was one of a small lonely cluster standing on the edge of an enormous beech wood. Not so very long ago the wood had covered the whole place; but gradually a clearing had been made, the ground cultivated, and a little settlement had sprung up, which was known as “Green Highlands.” It belonged to the parish of Danecross, a village in the plain below, three good miles away; so that for church, school, and public-house the people had to descend the long hill up which Mrs Darvell had just struggled. Shops there were none, even in Danecross, and for these they had to go a mile further, to the market-town of Daylesbury. But all this was not such a hardship to the people of Green Highlands as might be supposed, and many of them would not have changed their cottage on the hill for one in the village on the plain; for the air of Green Highlands was good, the children “fierce,” which in those parts means healthy and strong, and everyone possessed a piece of garden big enough to grow vegetables and accommodate a family pig. So the people, though poor, were contented, and had a more prosperous well-to-do air than some of the Danecross folk, who received higher wages and lived in the valley. The room Mrs Frank Darvell entered with a heavy, tired tread was a good-sized kitchen, one end of which was entirely occupied by a huge open fireplace without any grate; on the hearth burned and crackled a bright little wood-fire, the flames of which played merrily round a big black kettle hung on a chain. A little checked curtain hung from the mantel-shelf to keep away the draught which rushed down the wide open chimney, on each side of which was a straight-backed wooden settle. The dark smoke-dried rafters were evidently used as larder and storehouse, for all manner of things hung from them, such as a side of bacon, tallow dips, and a pair of clogs. Two or three pieces of oak furniture, brought to a high state of polish by Mrs Darvell’s industrious hands, gave an air of comfort to the room, though the floor was red-brick and bare of carpet; a tall brazen-faced clock ticked deliberately behind the door. On one of the settles in the chimney-corner sat Mrs Darvell’s “man,” as she called her husband, smoking a short pipe, with his feet stretched out on the hearth; his great boots, caked with mud, stood beside him. He was a big broad-shouldered fellow, about forty, with a fair smooth face, which generally looked good-tempered enough, and somewhat foolish, but which just now had a sullen expression on it, which Mrs Darvell’s quick eye noted immediately. He looked up and nodded when his wife came in, without taking the pipe out of his mouth. “Well, I’m proper tired,” she said, bumping her basket down with a sigh of relief. “That W hiteleaf Hill do spend one so after a day’s marketing.” Then glancing at the muddy boots on the hearth: “Bin ploughin’?” Mr Darvell nodded again, and looked inquiringly at his wife’s basket. Answering this silent question she said: “I sold ’em fairly well. Mrs Reuben got more; but hers was fatter.” Mr Darvell smoked on in silence, and his wife busied herself in preparing supper, consisting of cold bacon, bread, and tea without milk; it was not until they had both been seated at the meal for a little while that she set down her cup suddenly and exclaimed: “Why, whatever’s got our Frank? Isn’t he home yet?” Mr Darvell’s mouth was still occupied, not with his pipe, but with a thick hunk of bread, on which was laid an almost equally thick piece of fat bacon. Gazing at his wife across this barrier he nodded again, and presently murmured somewhat indistinctly: “Ah, he came home with me.” “Then,” repeated Mrs Darvell, fixing her eyes sharply on him, “where is the lad?” Mr Darvell avoided his wife’s gaze. “How should I know where he is?” he answered sullenly. “I haven’t seen him, not for these two hours. He’s foolin’ round somewheres with the other lads.” “That’s not like our Frank,” said Mrs Darvell, giving an anxious look round at the tall clock. “W hy, it’s gone eight,” she went on. “What can have got him?” Her eyes rested suspiciously on her husband, who shifted about uneasily. “Can’t you let the lad bide?” he said; “ye’ll not rest till ye make him a greater ninny nor he is by natur. He might as well ha’ bin a gell, an better, for all the good he’ll ever be.” “How did he tackle the ploughin’?” asked Mrs Darvell, pausing in the act of setting aside Frank’s supper on the dresser. “Worser nor ever,” replied her husband contemptuously. “He’ll never be good for nowt, but to bide at home an’ keep’s hands clean. W hy, look at Eli Redrup, not older nor our Frank, an’ can do a man’s work already.” “Eli Redrup!” exclaimed Mrs Darvell in a shrill tone of disgust; “you’d never even our lad to a great fullish lout like Eli Redrup, with a head like a turmut! If Frank isn’t just so fierce as some lads of his age, he’s got more sense than most.” “I tell ’ee, he’ll never be good for nowt,” replied her husband doggedly, as he resumed his seat in the chimney-corner and lighted his pipe. “Onless,” he added after a moment’s pause, “he comes to be a schoolmaster; and it haggles me to think that a boy of mine should take up a line like that.” Mrs Darvell made no answer; but as she washed up the cups and plates she cast a curious glance every now and then at her husband’s silent figure, for she had a strong feeling that he knew more than he chose to tell about “our” Frank’s absence. “Our Frank” had more than once been the innocent cause of a serious difference of opinion between Mr and Mrs Darvell. He was their only child, and had inherited his father’s fair skin and blue eyes, and his mother’s quickness of apprehension; but here the likeness to his parents ended, for he had a sensitive nature and a delicate frame—things hitherto unknown in Green Highlands. This did not matter so much during his childhood, when he earned golden opinions from rector and schoolmaster in Danecross, as a fine scholar, and one of the best boys in the choir; but the time came when Frank was thirteen, when he had gone through all the “Standards,” when he must leave school, and begin to work for his living. It was a hard apprenticeship, for something quite different from brain-work was needed now, and the boy struggled vainly against his physical weakness. It was a state of things so entirely incomprehensible to Mr Darvell, that, as he expressed it, “it fairly haggled him.” Weakness and delicacy were conditions entirely unknown to him and all his other relations, and might, he thought, be avoided by everyone except very old people and women; so Frank must be hardened, and taught not to shirk his work. The hardening process went on for some time, but not with a very satisfactory result, for added to his weakness the boy now showed an increasing terror of his father. He shrank from the hard words or the uplifted hand with an evident fear, which only strengthened Mr Darvell’s anger, for it mortified him still more to find his lad a coward as well as a bungler over his work. Frank, on his side, found his life almost intolerable just now, and all his trembling efforts “to work like a man” seemed utterly useless, for he was crippled by fear as well as weakness. He could not take things like the other Green Highland lads of his age, who were tough of nerve and sinew, and thought nothing of cuffs on the head and abuse. It was all dreadful to him, and he suffered as much in apprehension as in the actual punishment when it came. Mingled with it all was a hot sense of injustice, for he tried to do his best, and yet was always in disgrace and despair. W here was the use of having been such a good “scholard?” That seemed wasted now, for Frank’s poor little brain felt so muddled after a day’s field-work, and he was altogether so spent with utter weariness, that the only thing to do was to tumble into bed, and books were out of the question. He was being “hardened,” as his father called it, but not in a desirable way; for while his body remained slender and weak as ever, his mind became daily more stupid and unintelligent. Frank’s only refuge in these hard times was his mother’s love. That never failed him, for the very incapacity that so excited the wrath of his father only drew him more closely to Mrs Darvell, and made her watchful to shield him, if possible, from harsh treatment. She was always ready to do battle for him, and her strong big husband quailed before the small determined mother when she had her boy’s cause in hand. For Mrs Darvell was gifted with a range of expression and a freedom of speech which had been denied to her “man,” and he had learned to dread the times when the missus was put out, as occasions when he stood defenceless before that deadly weapon—the tongue. He was dreading it now, although he sat so quietly smoking in the chimney-corner. The air had that vaguely uneasy feeling in it that precedes a storm. Presently there would be the first clap of thunder. The clock struck nine. No Frank. An unheard-of hour for any of the Green Highland folk to be out of their beds and awake. Mr Darvell rose, stretched himself, glanced nervously at his wife, and suggested humbly: “Shall us go to bed?” “You may,” she replied, “but I don’t stir till I see the lad. If so be,” she added, “you can go to sleep with an easy mind while the lad’s still out, you’d better do it.” Her husband scratched his head thoughtfully, but made no answer; then Mrs Darvell rose and stood in front of him, shaking a menacing finger. “Frank Darvell,” she said slowly and solemnly, “you’ve bin leatherin’ that lad. Don’t deny it, for I know it.” Mr Darvell did not attempt to deny it. He only shuffled his feet a little. “An now,” continued his wife with increasing vehemence, “you’ve druv him at last to run away; don’t deny it.” “He ain’t run away,” muttered Mr Darvell. “He ain’t got pluck enough to do that. He’s a coward, that’s what he is.” “Coward!” cried his wife, now fairly roused, and standing in an aggressive attitude. “It’s you that are the coward, you great, hulking, stupid lout, to strike a weak boy half yer size. An’ to talk of goin’ to bed, an’ him wandering out there in the woods. My poor little gentle lad!” She sank down on the settle and wrung her hands helplessly, but started up again the next minute with a sudden energy which seemed to petrify her husband. “Put on your boots,” she said, pointing to them; and as Mr Darvell meekly obeyed she went on speaking quietly and rapidly. “Wake up Jack Gunn and send him down to Danecross. Tell him to ask at the rectory and at schoolmaster’s if they’ve seen the lad. Take your lantern and go into the woods. There’s gypsies camping out Hampden way; go there, and tell ’em to look out for him. Don’t you dare to come back without the lad. I’ll stop here, and burn a light and keep his supper ready. Poor little lad, he’ll be starved with hunger!” But the night waned, and no tidings came of Frank. Jack Gunn came back from Danecross having learned nothing, and the poor mother’s fears increased. The boy must be wandering in those weary woods, afraid to come home—or perhaps lost. Such a thing had been known before now; and as the first streaks of light appeared in the sky, and she saw the dim figure of her husband returning alone, Mrs Darvell’s courage quite forsook her. “I shall never see him no more,” she said to herself, and cried bitterly. And where was “our Frank” meanwhile? At the moment when Mrs Darvell began to climb W hiteleaf Hill with her heavy basket, Frank was lying at the foot of a big beech-tree in the wood near his home; his face was buried in his hands, and every now and then sobs shook his little thin frame. For it had been a most unfortunate day for him; everything had gone wrong, and by the time the evening came and work was over his father’s wrath was high. Frank knew what to expect, and he also remembered that there would be no mother at home to shield him from punishment, so waiting a favourable moment he slipped off into the wood before he was missed. Then he flung himself on the ground and cried, because he felt so tired, and weak, and hopeless; and as he thought of his father’s angry face and heavy uplifted hand he shivered with terror. How he longed for someone to comfort and speak kindly to him. Soon, he knew, his mother would be in from market; there would be a blazing fire at home, and supper, and a warm corner. Should he venture back? But then, morning would come again, and the hard work, and he would have to stumble along the sticky furrows all day, and there would be blows and threatenings to end with. No, he could not go back; it would be better even, he said to himself, to beg for his bread like the tramps he had seen sometimes in Danecross. As he came to this conclusion he sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked round him. It was about six o’clock, and already very dusk in the wood, though the little dancing leaves of the Leeches could not make much shadow yet, for it was only April; all round the boy rose the grey straight stems of the trees, and tufts of primroses shone out whitely here and there on the ground. It was perfectly still and silent, except that a cold little wind rustled the branches, and the birds were making a few last twittering notes before they went to sleep—“a harmony,” as the country folks called it. Frank got up and hurried on, for he knew that directly mother returned search would be made for him. He must get a long way on before that, and hide somewhere for the night. That side of the wood near Green Highlands was quite familiar to him, and though there were no paths, and it all looked very much alike, he knew what direction to take for the hiding-place he had in view. A town boy would soon have become confused, and perhaps have ended in finding himself at Green Highlands again, but Frank knew better than that, and he stumbled steadily along in his heavy boots, getting gradually and surely further away from home and deeper in the wood. How quiet it was, and how fast the darkness seemed to close round him! All the birds were silent soon, except that a jay sometimes startled him with its harsh sudden cry; once a rabbit rushed so quickly across his path that he almost fell on it. On and on he went at a steady jog-trot pace, looking neither to right nor left. Now, if you have ever been in a beech wood, you must remember that winter and summer the ground is covered with the old dead brown leaves that have fallen from the trees. So thick they lie, that in some places you can stand knee-deep in them, especially if there are any hollows into which they have been drifted by the wind; this particular wood was full of such hollows, some of them wide and long enough for a tall man to lie down in, and Frank knew exactly where to find them. Turning aside, therefore, at a certain clump of bushes there was the very thing he wanted —bed and hiding-place at once. It was a broad shallow pit or hollow filled quite up to the top with the red-brown beech leaves. He scooped out a place just large enough for himself, lay down in it, and carefully replaced the leaves up to his very chin. He even put a few lightly over his face, and when that was done no one would have imagined that a boy or any other living thing was hidden there. Then the solemn hours of darkness came silently on; all the creatures in the great wood slept, and even Frank in his strange leafy bed slept also, worn out with weariness. About the middle of the night the breeze freshened a little, and the dry leaves stirred and rustled. The sounds mingled with the boy’s dreams, and he thought he was lying in his attic at home, and that a mouse was running over his face; he felt its little tickling feet and its long tail quite plainly, and put up his hand to brush it away. Then he woke with a start. The chill wind blew in his face and sighed among the trees, and instead of the low attic beams there were waving branches over his head. He was not at home, but alone, quite alone in W hiteleaf Wood, with thick darkness all round him. Frank was frightened without knowing why; it was all so “unked,” as he would have expressed it, and as he stared about with terrified eyes he seemed to see mysterious forms moving near. Then he looked up towards the sky; and there, through a space between the tops of the trees, was one solitary beautiful star shining down upon him like a kind bright eye. It was a comfort to see it there, and by degrees, as he lay with his eyes fixed upon it, he forgot his fears a little, and began to think of other things. First there came into his head one line of a hymn which he had often sung in the choir at Danecross church: “Brightest and best of the sons of the morning,” it began. From that he went on to consider what a long time it was since he had said his prayers, because he was always so sleepy and tired at night, and he thought he would say them now. But before he had finished them he fell into a quiet slumber, which lasted till morning, when the sun, peering through the trees, pointed suddenly down at his face with a fiery finger and woke him up. Chapter Two. The first thought that came into Frank’s head was that he should not have to go to plough that day. The second was, that it was breakfast-time, that he was very hungry, and that he had nothing to eat. This was not so pleasant; but proceeding to “farm” his pockets, which in Buckinghamshire dialect means to rummage, he discovered a small piece of very hard bread. W ith this scanty meal he was obliged to be satisfied, and presently continued his journey in a tolerably cheerful frame of mind. W here he was going and how he was to earn his living he did not know; but on one subject he was quite resolved, he would not go back till he was too big and strong for father to “whop” him. It was hard to leave mother, and she would be sorry; but he thought he would manage somehow to write her a letter, and put a stamp upon it with the first penny he earned. So reflecting, and varying the gravity of such thoughts by chasing the squirrels and the grey rabbits that scudded across his path, he journeyed on, and by degrees reached a part of the wood quite unknown to him. He began to wonder now what he should do if he did not soon come to a cottage or some place where he could ask for food, for it was many hours since he had eaten, and he was faint with exhaustion. Never in his life had he felt so dreadfully hungry, and there were not even berries for him to eat at this time of the year. At last the craving became so hard to bear, and his head was so queer and giddy that he thought he must rest a little while. As far as he could judge by the sun it was about four o’clock, and he must be a long way from Green Highlands. He dropped down in a little crumpled heap at the foot of a tree, and shut his eyes—nothing seemed to matter much, not even his father’s anger; nothing but this dreadful gnawing pain. The only other thing he was conscious of was a distant continuous sound like the sawing of wood. He did not take much notice of this at first, but by and by as it went on and on monotonously the idea shaped itself in his mind that where that noise was there must be people, whom he could ask for food, and he got up and staggered on again. As he went the sound got louder and louder, and he could also hear a voice singing. This encouraged him so much that he quickened his pace to a run, and soon came to a great clearing in the wood. And then he saw what had caused the noise. Felled trees were lying about in the round open space, and there were great heaps of curly yellow shavings, and strange-looking smooth pieces of wood carefully arranged in piles. Two little sheds stood at some distance from each other, and in one of these sat a man turning a piece of wood in a rudely fashioned lathe; as he finished it he handed it to a boy kneeling at his feet, who supplied him with more wood, and sang at his work in a loud, clear voice. And then a still more interesting object caught Frank’s eye, for in the middle of the clearing there burned and crackled a lively little wood-fire, and over it, hanging from a triangle of three sticks, was a smoky black kettle. It held tea, he felt sure, and near it were some tin mugs and some nice little bundles of something tied up in spotted handkerchiefs. It all suggested agreeable preparations for a meal, and he felt he must join it at any risk. He stood timidly at the edge of the wood observing all this for a minute, and then, as no one noticed him, he slowly advanced till he was close to the man and boy; then they looked up and saw him. A wayworn, weary little figure he was, with a white face and mournful blue eyes; he had a shrinking, frightened air, like some hunted creature of the woods; and here and there the dry brown leaves had stuck to his clothes. Holding out his hand, and speaking in a low voice, for he felt ashamed of begging when it came to the point, he said: “Please can yer give me a morsel of bread?” The man, who had kind slow brown eyes and a very placid face, looked at him without speaking, and shook his head at the outstretched hand. But the boy answered with a wide-mouthed grin: “He’s hard o’ hearin’, my pardner is. He don’t know what yer say.” He then rose, and going close to the man shouted shrilly in his ear: “Little chap wants summat t’eat.” The man nodded. “He’s welcome to jine at tea,” he said, “and he can work it out arterwards. W here dost come from?” to Frank. Frank hesitated; then he thought of a village several miles beyond Danecross, and answered boldly, “Dinton.” “And where art goin’?” “I’m seekin’ work,” said Frank. These answers having been yelled into his ear by the boy, the man asked no further questions, though he gravely considered the stranger with his large quiet eyes. Shortly afterwards, having been joined by the mate who was sawing in the other shed, the company disposed themselves round the fire, and to Frank’s great joy the meal began. And what a meal it was! Roasted potatoes, tea, thick hunches of bread, small fragments of fat bacon, all pervaded with a slight flavour of smoke—could anything be more delicious to a famished boy? Frank abandoned himself silently to the enjoyment of it; and though his companions cast interested glances at him from time to time, no one spoke. It was a very quiet assembly. All round and above them the new little green leaves danced and twinkled, and on the ground the old ones made a rich brown carpet; the blue smoke of the fire rose thinly up in the midst. At last Frank gave a deep sigh of contentment as he put down his tin mug, and the deaf man clapped him kindly on the shoulder. “Hast taken the edge off, little chap?” he said. Then the two men, stretched luxuriously on the ground, filled their pipes and smoked in silence. The boy, who was about Frank’s own age, but brown-faced and stoutly built, busied himself in clearing away the remains of the meal, and in carefully making up the fire with dry chips and shavings; he seemed to have caught the infection of silence from his companions, and eyed the stranger guest without speaking a word. But Frank, who was revived and cheered by his food, felt inclined for a little conversation; he was always of an inquisitive turn of mind, and he was longing to ask some questions; so as the boy passed near him he ventured to say, pointing to the neat piles of wood: “What be yon?” The boy stared. “Yon?” he repeated; “why, yon be legs and rungs of cheers—that’s what we make ’em fur.” “Where be the cheers?” pursued Frank. “We send all yon down to W ickham, to the cheer factory,” answered the boy; “we don’t fit ’em together here.” He seated himself at Frank’s side as he spoke, and poked at the fire with a long pointed stick. “How do they get ’em down to W ickham?” asked Frank, bent on getting as much information as possible. The boy pointed to a broad cart-track, which descended abruptly from one side of the clearing. “They fetch a cart up yonder, and take ’em down into the high-road.” “And how fur is it?” “A matter of two miles, and then three miles further to the factory, and there they make ’em up into cheers, and then they send ’em up to Lunnon Town by the rail.” Frank remembered the great cart-loads of chairs that he had seen passing through Danecross, but what chiefly struck him in his companion’s answer were the two words “Lunnon Town.” They fell on his ear with a new meaning. He had read of Lunnon Town, and heard schoolmaster talk of it, but had never imagined it as a place he could see, any more than America. Now, suddenly, an idea of such vast enterprise seized on his mind, that it stunned him into silence. He would go to Lunnon Town! Everyone became rich there. He would become rich too; then he would go back to Green Highlands, and give all his money to mother; there would be no need for any more field-work, and they would all be happy. At the thought of mother his eyes filled with tears, for he knew how unhappy she would be when he did not come back, and how she would stand at the door and look out for him. He longed to set about making this great fortune at once, it seemed a waste of time to sit idle; but he knew he must rest that night, for his legs felt stiff and aching; besides he had to work out his meal. In half an hour the deaf man’s lathe was hard at work again, and the two boys busily employed near. Frank’s new friend showed him how to arrange the pieces of wood neatly in piles when they were turned and smoothed. He hummed a tune in the intervals of conversation and presently asked: “Can yer sing?” Frank could sing—very well. He was one of the best singers in Danecross choir, and Mrs Darvell held her head very high when she heard her boy’s voice in church; so he answered with a certain pride: “Ah, I can sing proper well.” “Sing summat,” said the boy. Frank waited a minute to choose a tune, and then sang “Ring the Bell, Watchman,” straight through. The boy listened attentively, and joined, after the second verse, in the chorus, which was also taken up in a gruff and uncertain manner by the mate in the other shed. The deaf man looked on approvingly, and the lathe kept up a grinding accompaniment. “That’s fine, that is,” said the boy when the last notes of Frank’s clear voice died away. “Do yer know any more?” “I know a side more,” said Frank, “and hymns too.” “Can yer sing ‘Home Sweet Home?’” asked the boy. “Ah.” But this song was not so successful, for after the chorus had been sung with great animation, and the second verse eagerly expected, something choked and gurgled in Frank’s throat so that he could not sing any more. All that night, as he lay on the bed of shavings, which he shared with his new companion, he waked at intervals to hear those words echoing through the woods: “Home Sweet Home—There’s no place like Home.” But with the morning sun these sounds vanished, and he began his onward journey cheerily, refreshed by his rest and food. As he went down the cart-track the boy had pointed out to him he sang scraps of songs to himself, the birds twittered busily above his head, and the distant sound of the deaf man’s lathe came more and more faintly to his ears. He felt sure now that he was on his way to make his fortune, and the wood seemed full of voices which said, “Lunnon Town, Lunnon Town,” over and over again. The thought of his mother’s sad face was, it is true, a little depressing. “But,” he said to himself, “how pleased she’ll be when I come back rich!” Then he considered what sort of shawl he would buy for her with the first money he earned—whether it should be a scarlet one, or mixed colours with an apple-green border, like one he had seen once in a shop at Daylesbury. These fancies beguiled the way, and he was surprised when, after what seemed a short time, he found himself at the edge of the wood, and in a broad high-road; that must be the W ickham Road, and he had still three miles to walk before reaching the town and the chair factories, where he meant to ask for work as a first step on his way to London. It was not a busy-looking road, and the carts and people who passed now and then seemed to have plenty of time and no wish to hurry; still, to Frank, who was used to the solitude of Green Highlands and the deeper quiet of the woods, it felt like getting into the world, and he looked down at his clothes, and wondered how they would suit a large town. He wore a smock, high brown leather gaiters reaching almost to his thighs, and very thick hobnailed boots. He wished he had his Sunday coat on instead of the smock, but the rest of the things would do very well, and they were so strong and good that they would last a long time. So this point settled he trudged on again, till, by twelve o’clock, he saw W ickham in the distance with its gabled red houses and tall factory buildings. And now that he was so near, his courage forsook him a little, and he felt that he was a very small weak boy, and that the factories were full of bustling work-people who would take no notice of him. He stood irresolute in the street, wondering to whom he ought to apply, and presently his eye was attracted to the window of a small baker’s shop near. Through this he saw a kind-looking round-faced woman, who stood behind the counter knitting. Just in front of her there was, curled round, a sleek black cat, and she stopped in her work now and then to scratch its head gently with her knitting-pin. Somehow this encouraged Frank, and entering he put his question timidly, in his broad Buckinghamshire accent. The woman smiled at him good-naturedly. “From the country, I reckon?” she said, not answering his question. “Ah,” replied Frank, “I be.” “You’re a dillicate little feller to be trampin’ about alone seekin’ work,” she said, considering him thoughtfully. “Is yer mother livin’?” “Ah,” said Frank again, casting longing eyes at a crisp roll on the counter. “Then why don’t yer bide at home,” asked the woman, “and work there?” “I want to get more wage,” said Frank, who was feeling hungrier every minute with the smell of the bread. “I’ll be obliged to yer if ye’ll tell me how I could git taken on at the factory.” “You must go and ask at the overseer’s office up next street, where you see a brass plate on the door —name of Green. But bless yer ’art, we’ve lads enough and to spare in W ickham; I doubt they won’t want a country boy who knows nought of the trade.” “I can try,” said Frank; “and I learn things quick. Schoolmaster said so.” The woman shook her head. “You’d be better at home, my little lad,” she said, “till you’re a bit older. There’s no place like home.” Those same words had been sounding in Frank’s ears all night. They seemed to meet him everywhere, he thought, like a sort of warning. Nevertheless he was not going to give up his plan, and having learned the direction of the overseer’s office he turned to leave the shop. “And here’s summat to set yer teeth in as you go along,” said the woman, holding out a long roll of bread. “Growing lads should allus be eatin’.” “Thank you, ma’am,” said Frank, and he took off his cap politely, as he had been taught at school, and went his way. “As pretty behaved as possible,” murmured the woman as she looked after him, “and off with his hat like a prince. What sort o’ folks does he belong to, I wonder!” The overseer’s office was a small dark room with a high desk in it, at which sat a sandy-haired red- faced man, with his hat very much on the back of his head. He was talking in a loud blustering voice to several workmen, and as Frank entered he heard the last part of the speech. “So you can tell Smorthwaite and the rest of ’em that they can come on again on the old terms, but they’ll not get a farthing more. Well, boy,” as he noticed Frank standing humbly in the background, “what do you want?” Mr Green’s manner was that of an incensed and much-tried man, and Frank felt quite afraid to speak. “Please, sir,” he said, “do you want a boy in the factory?” “Do I want a boy!” repeated the overseer, addressing the ceiling in a voice of despair. “No, of course I don’t want a boy. If I had my will I’d have no boys in the place—I’m sick of the sight of boys.” He bent his eyes on a newspaper before him, and seemed to consider the matter disposed of; but Frank made one more timid venture. “Please, sir,” he said, going close up to the desk, “I’d work very stiddy.” Mr Green peered over his high desk at the sound of the small persistent voice, and frowned darkly. “Clear out!” he said with a nod of his head towards the door; “don’t stop here talking nonsense. Out you go!” Frank dared not stay; he slunk out into the street crushed and disappointed, for he felt he had not even had a chance. “He might a listened to a chap,” he said to himself. Just then the church clock struck one, dinner time, and a convenient doorstep near, so he took the roll out of the breast of his smock-frock and sat down to eat it. As he had never been used to very luxurious meals it satisfied him pretty well; and then he watched the people passing to and fro, and wondered what he could do to earn some money. The chair-factory was hopeless certainly, but there must surely be some one in W ickham who wanted a boy to run errands, or dig gardens, or help in stables. W hat should he do? W ithout money he must starve; he could neither go on to London or back to Green Highlands. The street was almost deserted now, for all the people who had dinners waiting for them had hurried home to eat them, and no one had noticed the rustic little figure in the grey gaberdine crouched on the doorstep. Suddenly a dreadful feeling of loneliness seized on Frank, such as he had not felt since leaving home. Even the great solitary wood had not seemed so cold and unfriendly as this town, full of human faces, where the very houses seemed to stare blankly upon him. He thought of the kind baker woman, and immediately her words sounded in his ear: “There’s no place like home.” If he went to her she would try to persuade him to go back, and that he was still determined not to do; but his golden pictures of the future had faded a good deal since that morning, and as he sat and looked wistfully at the hard red houses opposite he could not help his eyes filling with tears. Fortunately, he thought, there was no one to see them; but still he felt ashamed of crying, and bent his head on his folded arms. Sitting thus for some minutes, he was presently startled by a voice close by. “What’s up, little un?” it said. Frank looked up quickly, and saw that the question came from a boy standing in front of him. He was a very tall, thin boy, about fifteen years old, with a dark face and narrow twinkling black eyes. All his clothes were ragged, and none of them seemed to fit him properly, for his coat-sleeves were inconveniently long, and his trousers so short that they showed several inches of brown bony ankles. On his head he wore a rusty black felt hat with half a brim, which was turned down over his eyes; his feet were bare; and he carried under his arm a cage full of nimble crawling white mice. After a minute’s observation Frank decided in his mind that this must be a “tramp.” Now and then these wandering folks passed through Danecross and the neighbourhood on their way to large towns; and, as a rule, people looked askance at them. It was awkward to have them about when ducklings and chickens were being reared, and Frank had always heard them spoken of with contempt and suspicion. Just now, however, any sympathy appeared valuable, and he smiled back at the twinkling black eyes, and answered: “There’s nowt the matter with me. I’m wantin’ work.” The boy seemed to think this an amusing idea, for he grinned widely, showing an even row of very white teeth. Then he sat down on the doorstep, put his cage of mice on the ground, and began to whistle; his bright eyes keenly observing Frank from top to toe meanwhile, and finally resting on his thick hobnailed boots. Then he asked briefly: “Farm-work?” “I’d ratherly get any other,” answered Frank. And feeling it his turn to make some inquiries, he said: “What do yer carry them mice fur?” The boy looked at him for a minute in silence; then he chuckled, and gave a long low whistle. “I say, little chap,” he said confidentially, “ain’t you a flat! Just rather.” Seeing on Frank’s face no sign of comprehension he continued: “W ithout them little mice I should be what they calls a wagrant. Many a time they’ve saved me from the beak, and from being run in. Them’s my business; and a nice easy trade it is. Lots of change and wariety. No one to wallop yer. Live like a jintleman.” He waved his hand at his last words with a gesture expressive of large and easy circumstances. Frank glanced at his bare feet and generally dishevelled appearance. “I don’t want to live like a jintleman,” he said; “I want to work honest, and git wage.” “Why did yer cut and run then?” said his companion suddenly and sharply. “Did they wallop yer?” Frank started. How could this strange boy possibly know that he had run away? His alarmed face seemed to afford the tramp the keenest amusement; he laughed long and loud, leaning back on the steps in an ecstasy, and said at breathless intervals: “You’re just the innocentest, greenest little chap. How old are yer?” Frank did not answer; he was considering the best means of getting away from this undesirable acquaintance, who presently, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his jacket, remarked with recovered gravity: “In course, yer know, no one ’ull take a boy what’s run away.” This was a new and alarming idea to Frank. “Won’t they?” he said earnestly. “Certingly not,” continued the tramp. “Where’s yer carikter? You ’ain’t got none.” Frank hung his head. He wondered he had not thought of this before. “This is where it lies,” pursued his companion, holding out a very dirty hand dramatically in front of him. “You comes, as it might be, to me and you says, ‘I want a sitivation.’ Then I says, ‘W here’s yer carikter?’ Then you says, ‘I ’ain’t got one.’ Then I says, ‘Out yer go.’” Having thus placed the situation in a nutshell, as it were, he put his hands in his pockets and observed Frank covertly out of the corners of his eyes. Seeing how crestfallen he looked, the tramp presently spoke again. “Now, in my line of bizness it’s not so important a carikter isn’t. I might very likely look over it in takin’ a pal if he asked me. In course it would be a favour; but still I might look over it.” “Do you want a pal?” asked Frank, pushed to extremity. “Well, I don’t, not to say want a pal,” replied the tramp, “but I don’t mind stretching a pint in your case if you like to jine.” The blue eyes and the glittering black ones met for an instant. “I’ll jine yer,” said Frank with a sigh. The tramp held out his long-fingered brown hand. “Shake hands,” he said. “The terms is, halves all we git.” The bargain concluded, he informed Frank that his name was Barney, and further introduced him to the mice, called respectively Jumbo, Alice, and Lord Beaconsfield. This last, a mouse of weak-eyed and feeble appearance, he took out of the cage and allowed to crawl over him, stroking it tenderly now and then with the tip of his finger. “He’s an artful one, he is,” he murmured admiringly. “I calls him Dizzy for short. W hat’s your name, little un?” “Frank.” “That sounds a good sort o’ name too,” said Barney; “sort o’ name you see in gowld letters on a chany mug in the shop winders, don’t it? I don’t fancy, though, I could bring my tongue to it, not as a jineral thing. I shall call yer ‘Nipper,’ if you don’t mind. After a friend o’ mine.” The new name appearing rather an advantage than otherwise under his present circumstances Frank agreed to drop his own, and to be henceforth known only as the “Nipper.” This change seemed to have broken the last link which bound him to Green Highlands and his own people. He was Frank Darvell no longer; he belonged to no one; the wide world was his home; Barney and the white mice his only friends and companions. Chapter Three. In the wandering life that followed, Frank had excellent opportunities for studying the character of his new comrade, and it did not take long to discover two prominent points in it. Barney was a liar and a thief. These accomplishments, indeed, had formed the principal features in poor Barney’s education from his tenderest childhood. He had always been taught that it was desirable and proper to lie and steal; the only wrong and undesirable thing was—to be found out. To do Barney justice he very seldom was found out; nimble of finger and quick of wit he had profited well by his lessons, and by the time Frank met him had long been a finished scholar, and able to “do” for himself. In spite of these failings he was a kind-hearted boy; he would not have hurt any living thing weaker than himself, and Frank’s pale face and slender form soon appealed to his protective instincts in much the same way that his white mice did, for which he cherished a fond affection. If the night were cold he always managed that the Nipper had the warmest shelter, and when provisions were scarce the least tasty morsels were always reserved for himself, as a matter of course. Then what an amusing companion he was! How his ingenious stories, mostly a tissue of falsehood, beguiled the weary way, and made Frank forget his aching feet! He believed them all at first, and his innocent credulousness acted as a spur to Barney’s fertile invention and excited him to fresh and wilder efforts. On one occasion, however, his imagination carried him beyond the limits of even Frank’s capacity of belief, and from that moment suspicion began. He had been romancing about the riches and wealth of people who lived in London (where he had never been), and after describing at great length that the houses were none of them smaller than the whole town of W ickham put together, he added: “An the folks niver uses ought but gowld to eat an drink off.” Frank looked up quickly. “You’re wrong there,” he said. “My mother’s got a chany jug what used to belong to her grandfather, and he lived in Lunnon.” Observing a twinkle in the corner of Barney’s eye he continued in an injured tone: “You’ve bin lyin’. Lies is wicked, and stealin’s wicked too.” There was a sound of conscious superiority in his tone, which was naturally irritating to his companion, who laughed hoarsely. “Jest listen to him,” he said, addressing Lord Beaconsfield for want of a more intelligent audience, “listen to him! Don’t he preach fine? An’ him a boy without a carikter too! Lies is wicked, eh? And stealin’s wicked. Who told him that, I wonder?” “It’s in the catekizum,” continued Frank. “Parson allers said so, and Schoolmaster too.” Barney made a gesture expressive of much contempt at the mention of these two dignitaries. “Parson and Schoolmaster!” he said derisively. “W hy, in course they said so; they’re paid to do it. That’s how they earns their money. But jest you please to remember, that yer not Parson, not yit Schoolmaster, but a boy without a carikter, so shut up with yer preachin’.” W ithout a character! It was hard, Frank thought, that he, a respectable Danecross boy, who had been to school, and sung in the choir, and whose folks had always worked honest and got good wages, should have come to this! That a vagrant tramp, who could neither read nor write, and who got his living anyhow, should be able to call him “a boy without a carikter!” And the worst of it was, that it was true, he sadly thought, as he plodded along in the dust by Barney’s side. He had thrown away his right to be considered respectable—no one would employ him if they knew he had run away, and still less if they knew he had been “on the tramp” with a boy like Barney. However, as time went on, such serious thoughts troubled him less frequently; as long as the sun shone, it was easy to avoid dwelling on them amidst the change and uncertainty of his vagrant life. But there were not two days alike in it. Sometimes luck, plenty to eat, and a bed of dry straw in a barn—that was luxury. Sometimes a weary tramp in the pouring rain, no coppers and no supper. Under these last circumstances the “Nipper” was sharply reminded of the time when he was Frank Darvell, and lived at Green Highlands; shivering and hungry, his thoughts would dwell regretfully on the comfort and security he had left. Mother’s face would come before him sad and reproachful. Poor mother! She would never have that shawl with the apple-green border now. Her Frank, instead of making a great fortune in London town, had become a wanderer and a tramp; and indeed after a month’s companionship with Barney he was so altered that she would hardly have known him. Sleeping under hedges or in outhouses had not improved his clothes, which were now stained and torn. His pale face was changed by wind and weather, and also by a plentiful supply of dust, seldom washed off, into a dirty brown one, and his hair, once kept so neatly cropped, now hung about in bushy tangles like Barney’s. Only his bright blue eyes, with their innocent childishness of expression, were recognisable, and these gained him many a copper when he carried round his cap after Barney’s feeble performances with the white mice. But though changed outwardly, there was one good habit which Frank had brought away from Green Highlands, and to which he clung with a persistency which surprised and irritated his partner. This was honesty. Nothing would induce him to steal, or even to share stolen booty; hunger, threats, bitterly sarcastic speeches were alike in vain, and at last Barney’s scornful amusement at the “boy without a carikter” began to be mingled with a certain respect; not that he was the least inclined to follow his example and give up pilfering himself, but he thought it was “game” of the little ’un to hold his own, and that was a quality he could understand and admire. After all, a chap that had been brought up by parsons and schoolmasters must have allowances made for him, he supposed, and he soon gave up all idea of inducing Frank to thieve, and even kept his own exploits in the background, because the “Nipper” took it to heart. So, sharing sometimes hardships, and sometimes pleasures, the oddly-matched partners journeyed on, with an increasing attachment to each other, and Frank’s thoughts travelled back less and less often to Green Highlands. For now the bright warm weather had set fairly in, and all the different flowers came marching on in sweet procession, and filled the woods and fields. After the primroses, and while some still remained sprinkled about in the sunny places, came the deep blue hyacinths, and then the golden kingcups, and the downy yellow cowslips: last of all, a tall triumphant host of foxgloves spread themselves over forest and common. The wind, blowing softly from the west, brought with it little gentle showers, just enough to freshen the leaves and wash the upturned faces of the blossoms; tramping was a luxury in such weather, and those people much to be pitied who had to work in close dark rooms, hidden away from the glorious sunshine. Certainly it was rather too hot sometimes, and the roads were dusty and gritty, and the boys’ throats got parched with thirst...