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. With this scanty meal he was obliged to be
satisfied, and presently continued his journey in a tolerably cheerful
frame of mind. Where 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. Where 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 Wickham, 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 Wickham?" 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 Wickham 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
Wickham 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 Wickham; 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 Wickham who wanted a boy to run errands, or dig gardens, or help
in stables. What should he do? Without 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:
"Without 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, `Where'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. What'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.