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."
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