Friarswood Post Office. CHARLOTTE M. YONGE

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      Harold came home in better humour, but a fresh vexation awaited him. Mrs. King would not let him go to the hay-home supper in the barn. The men were apt to drink too much and grow riotous; and with her suspicions about his new friend, she thought it better to keep him apart. She was a spirited woman, who would be minded, and Harold knew he must submit, and that he had behaved very ill. Ellen told him too how much Alfred had been distressed about the pony, and though he would not shew her that he cared, it made him go straight up-stairs, and with a somewhat sheepish face, say, ‘I say, Alf, the pony’s all right. I only gave him one cut to get him off. He’d never go at all if he didn’t know his master.’

      ‘He’d go fast enough for my voice,’ said Alfred.

      ‘You know I’d never go for to beat him,’ continued Harold; ‘but it was enough to vex a chap—wasn’t it?—to have Mother coming and lugging one off from the carrying, and away from the supper and all. Women always grudge one a bit of fun!’

      ‘Mother never grudged us cricket, nor nothing in reason,’ said Alfred. ‘Lucky you that could make hay at all! And what made you so taken up with that new boy that Ellen runs on against, and will have it he’s a convict?’

      ‘A convict! if Ellen says that again!’ cried Harold; ‘no more a convict than she is.’

      ‘What is he, then? Where does he come from?’

      ‘His name is Paul Blackthorn,’ said Harold; ‘and he’s the queerest chap I ever came across. Why, he knew no more what to do with a prong than the farmer’s old sow till I shewed him.’

      ‘But where did he come from?’ repeated Alfred.

      ‘He walked all the way from Piggot’s turnpike yesterday,’ said Harold. ‘He’s looking for work.’

      ‘And before that?’

      ‘He’d been in the Union out—oh! somewhere, I forgot where, but it’s a name in the Postal Guide.’

      ‘Well, but you’ve not said who he is,’ said Ellen.

      ‘Who? why, I tell you, he’s Paul Blackthorn.’

      ‘But I suppose he had a father and mother,’ said Ellen.

      ‘No,’ said Harold.

      ‘No!’ Ellen and Alfred cried out together.

      ‘Not as ever he heard tell of,’ said Harold composedly, as if this were quite natural and common.

      ‘And you could go and be raking with him like born brothers there!’ said Ellen, in horror.

      ‘D’ye think I’d care for stuff like that?’ said Harold. ‘Why, he sings—he sings better than Jack Lyte! He’s learnt to sing, you know. And he’s such a comical fellow! he said Mr. Shepherd was like a big pig on his hind legs; and when Mrs. Shepherd came out to count the scraps after we had done, what does he do but whisper to me to know how long our withered cyder apples had come to life!’

      Such talents for amusing others evidently far out-weighed in Harold’s consideration such trifling points as fathers, mothers, and respectability. Alfred laughed; but Ellen thought it no laughing matter, and reproved Harold for being wicked enough to hear his betters made game of.

      ‘My betters!’ said Harold—‘an old skinflint like Farmer Shepherd’s old woman?’

      ‘Hush, Harold! I’ll tell Mother of you, that I will!’ cried Ellen.

      ‘Do then,’ said Harold, who knew his sister would do no such thing. She had made the threat too often, and then not kept her word.

      She contented herself with saying, ‘Well, all I know is, that I’m sure now he has run away out of prison, and is no better than a thief; and if our place isn’t broken into before to-morrow morning, and Mother’s silver sugar-tongs gone, it will be a mercy. I’m sure I shan’t sleep a wink all night.’

      Both boys laughed, and Alfred asked why he had not done it last night.

      ‘How should I know?’ said Ellen. ‘Most likely he wanted to see the way about the place, before he calls the rest of the gang.’

      ‘Take care, Harold! it’s a gang coming now,’ said Alfred, laughing again. ‘All coming on purpose to steal the sugar-tongs!’

      ‘No, I’ll tell you what they are come to steal,’ said Harold mischievously; ‘it’s all for Ellen’s fine green ivy-leaf brooch that Matilda sent her!’

      ‘I dare say Harold has been and told him everything valuable in the house!’ said Ellen.

      ‘I think,’ said Alfred gravely, ‘it would be a very odd sort of thief to come here, when the farmer’s ploughing cup is just by.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Harold, ‘I’d better have told him of that when I was about it; don’t you think so, Nelly?’

      ‘If you go on at this rate,’ said Ellen, teased into anger, ‘you’ll be robbing the post-office yourself some day.’

      ‘Ay! and I’ll get Paul Blackthorn to help me,’ said the boy. ‘Come, Ellen, don’t be so foolish; I tell you he’s every bit as honest as I am, I’d go bail for him.’

      ‘And I know he’ll lead you to ruin!’ cried Ellen, half crying: ‘a boy that comes from nowhere and nobody knows, and sleeps on a hay-cock all night, no better than a mere tramp!’

      ‘What, quarrelling here? ‘said Mrs. King, coming up-stairs. ‘The lad, I wish him no ill, I’m sure, but he’ll be gone by to-morrow, so you may hold your tongues about him, and we’ll read our chapter and go to bed.’

      Harold’s confidence and Ellen’s distrust were not much wiser the one than the other. Which was nearest being right?

CHAPTER III—A NEW FRIEND

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      The post-office was not robbed that night, neither did the silver sugar-tongs disappear, though Paul Blackthorn was no farther off than the hay-loft at Farmer Shepherd’s, where he had obtained leave to sleep.

      But he did not go away with morning, though the hay-making was over. Ellen saw him sitting perched on the empty waggon, munching his breakfast, and to her great vexation, exchanging nods and grins when Harold rode by for the morning’s letters; and afterwards, there was a talk between him and the farmer, which ended in his having a hoe put into his hand, and being next seen in the turnip-field behind the farm.

      To make up for the good day, this one was a very bad one with poor Alfred. There was thunder in the air, and if the sultry heat weighed heavily even on the healthy, no wonder it made him faint and exhausted, disposed to self-pity, and terribly impatient and fretful. He was provoked by Ellen’s moving about the room, and more provoked by Harold’s whistling as he cleaned out the stable; and on the other hand, Harold was petulant at being checked, and vowed there was no living in the house with Alfred making such a work. Moreover, СКАЧАТЬ