the farmhouse. Mr Solace was so good-natured, he was always ready to do
what he was asked, and Dennis knew quite well that he and Maisie were
favourites. He felt still more anxious now that Tuvvy should not be
sent away, for since this talk with him, he seemed to have taken his
affairs under his protection. Tuvvy seemed to belong to him, and to
depend on him for help and advice, and Dennis was determined to do his
very best for him. So it was with a feeling of great importance that he
entered the housekeeper's room, where he was told that he should find
Mrs Solace and his sister. They were both there, and both very busy,
for Mrs Solace was making meat-pies, and Maisie, covered from head to
foot with a big white apron, was learning how to roll out paste.
"Did you want to see Andrew _particularly_, my dear?" asked Mrs Solace.
"Fact is, he's in the office, over his accounts, and don't want to be
disturbed. If it's a message from Miss Chester, you could leave it with
me, couldn't you? and I'll be sure he has it."
"It isn't a message from Aunt Katharine," said Dennis. "It's something
I _must_ say myself; something very important, indeed. Maisie knows it
is," he added, as Mrs Solace still hesitated.
She looked at the children with some perplexity in her good-humoured
face. She did not want to disturb Andrew just now, whose temper was
seldom ruffled except when he was at his accounts. On the other hand,
Dennis and Maisie were both fixing such imploring eyes upon her that she
could not bear to say "No."
"Well, then," she said, "you must just go and knock at the door and ask
if you may go in. But _don't_ ye stay long, my dear, else Andrew'll be
vexed, and it's I who'll bear the blame."
The office, where Mr Solace had retired to struggle with his accounts,
was not a very business-like apartment. It was a small room with a door
opening into the stable-yard, full of a great variety of articles, such
as boots, whips, guns, walking-sticks, and pipes. In the window there
was a big writing-table, covered with account-books and papers, and it
was here that the farm men came to be paid on Saturday night. From his
seat Mr Solace could see all that went on in the stable-yard, and could
shout out orders to the men as they passed across it without leaving his
chair. That was in summer, but now the window was shut and the room was
quite full of the fumes of Mr Solace's pipe, from which he was puffing
angry clouds of tobacco, as he frowned over a great leather-bound book
in front of him.
He was a man of about fifty, with iron-grey hair and very blue eyes
which looked keenly out under bushy brows. They were kindly eyes, but
they were eyes which could fix themselves commandingly on man or beast,
and seemed used to having their commands obeyed. They were set in a
face so bronzed and reddened by an outdoor life, that this colour was
all the more striking, except to old Sally, who spoke lightly of them
compared to others she "minded" in the family. "They weren't nothing at
all to what old Mr Solace's was," she said. "They _were_ blue, if you
like."
Biting the top of his quill pen, and stamping his foot, when the figures
were too much for his patience, the farmer had just travelled nearly up
a long column, when a loud knock was heard at his door.
At first he only grunted impatiently, for he knew that if he let go his
calculation for an instant, he was a lost man, and would have to add it
all up again. But almost immediately the knock was loudly repeated.
"Come in," he shouted, flinging down his pen and turning angrily towards
the door. His gaze was directed to the height of a full-grown person,
and he lowered it hastily to the level of Dennis's small round head, and
said in a softer tone: "Oh, it's you, is it, my boy."
Dennis marched straight in at once, and stood at the farmer's elbow. He
was not a bit afraid of Mr Solace, and had prepared just what he meant
to say, so he began without a pause.
"I've come to ask you a favour, please."
"And I wish you'd come at any other time," said Mr Solace
good-naturedly; "but as you're here, out with it."
Dennis's favours were usually connected with jackdaws, or rabbits, or
puppies, and no doubt this would be something of the same kind.
"It's a bigger one than ever I've asked before," continued Dennis, "and
I want it more than anything I've wanted before."
"Fire away!" said the farmer; "only make haste about it, because I'm
busy."
"I want you," said Dennis, speaking slowly and solemnly, as he drew up
closer, "to let Tuvvy stop."
The farmer's face changed. He gave a long low whistle.
"Did he send you to ask me that?" he said.
"No indeed," replied Dennis indignantly; "I thought of it my very own
self. He's promised not to have any more bouts, if you'll keep him on."
Mr Solace got up and stood with his elbow on the mantelpiece, looking
down at Dennis.
"Well, my boy," he said, "that's a thing I must say `No' to. I'm forced
to, by Tuvvy himself. I don't want to send him away. I shan't get
another such a clever chap in his place."
"Then why do you?" asked Dennis.
"Because I can't put up with him any longer; I've been too soft-hearted
already. I've winked at his goings-on again and again, and I've let him
off times out of number. But now my mind's made up."
"But he's _promised_," urged Dennis, "and he's going to walk home the
field-way, so as not to pass the Cross Keys. He says it's the red blind
that draws him in."
"H'm," said the farmer, with a short laugh. "He don't want much
_drawing_, I fancy. And as for his promises--I've had enough of Tuvvy's
promises."
Dennis looked crestfallen. He had not expected this.
"Won't you try him just this _once_ more?" he pleaded.
"Now, look here, Master Dennis," said the farmer; "you know most of my
men. They don't call me a hard master, do they?"
"No," replied Dennis; "they say the gaffer's very kind."
"Well, but there's another thing I've got to think of besides kindness,
and that's justice. It isn't fair, you see, to the other men to let
Tuvvy off. Why, if I did, I shouldn't have a steady workman about the
place soon, and serve me right. They'd say: `There's that chap Tuvvy
can do as he likes, and drink and leave his master in the lurch, and yet
he's no worse off. Why shouldn't we do the same? What's the good of
being sober and steady, and sticking to our work, if we don't get
anything by it?'"
"But I'm sure," said Dennis eagerly, "they'd all like Tuvvy to stop."
"That's the worst of it," said Mr Solace, with an annoyed jerk of his
head. "I should like him to stop too. He's such a clever rascal with
his head as well as his hands. A hint does for him, where another man
wants telling all the ins and outs of a thing, and doesn't get it right
in the end. Tuvvy's got a head on his shoulders, and turns out his work
just as it ought to be. It's a pleasure to see it. But then, perhaps
just at a busy time when we're wanting some job he's at, he'll break out
and have a regular fit of drinking for the best part of a week, and
leave us all in the lurch. It's no use. I can't and won't put up with
it, and I oughtn't to."
The farmer spoke as though arguing with his own weakness rather than
with Dennis, who now ventured to ask: "If all the others wanted him to
stay, would you let him?"
"I'll have nothing to do with asking them," said the farmer, spreading
out his hands. "I'll have nothing more to do with Tuvvy at all. I've
given him up. Now you run away, my boy, and let me get to my business."
Dennis stood for a minute, half uncertain whether he should put some
more questions; but Mr Solace sat down to his desk, and grasped his pen
with such determination, that he did not dare to make another attempt,
and unwillingly left the office.
He did not, however, entirely give up hope. Dennis was a stubborn
little boy, and when he had fixed his mind upon a thing, he did not soon
leave off trying to get it. Could Aunt Katharine help him, he wondered,
as he and Maisie ran home together. At any rate he would tell her all
about it, and ask for her advice. But when she had heard the story,
Aunt Katharine did not seem to have much advice to give.
"I don't think you must worry Mr Solace any more, Dennis," she said.
"He knows best how to manage his own affairs and his own men. A little
boy like you can't understand such things. If the wheelwright behaves
badly, of course he must lose his place."
"But," persisted Dennis, "Mr Solace really does want to keep him, I
know, only he says it isn't fair to the other men."
"Well, you'd better get them to sign a Round Robin, then," said Miss
Chester, laughing; "_I_ can't interfere."
She was hurrying away, as though there were no more to be said on the
subject, but Dennis followed her.
"Oh Aunt Katharine," he said earnestly, taking hold of her dress, "_do_
wait a minute, and tell me what you mean by a Round Robin."
Aunt Katharine was always willing to make things clear to the children
if she could, and she now sat down patiently to explain to Dennis what a
Round Robin was. When he quite understood, he ran quickly in search of
Maisie that he might describe it to her before he forgot a word, and get
her to help him in preparing one.
CHAPTER SIX.
LOST!
"There!" said Dennis triumphantly, "we've got it right at last."
"There's only one tiny smudge on it," said Maisie, looking anxiously
over his shoulder at the Round Robin.
It had cost them nearly two days of earnest effort and repeated failure,
for although Aunt Katharine had described exactly how it was to be done,
she had left them to carry it out entirely by themselves. It sounded so
easy to say: "Take a sheet of cardboard, and draw a large circle on it,
leaving room for all the signatures you want. Then write the petition
clearly in the middle, and that is a Round Robin." But it was not so
easy when you began to do it. First the circle was too large, and then
it was too small, then there were mistakes in the spelling, and then
there were too many blots; but at last, after wasting four sheets of
cardboard, the Round Robin approached perfection. Aunt Katharine came
in to see it, and smiled, and said she thought it would do.
"But you've got a good deal before you yet, Dennis," she added. "Do you
think you shall be able to get all the men to sign?"
"Every one of them," said Dennis decidedly. "I shall begin with the
bailiff, and end with the pig-man. He can't write his name, but he can
put a cross."
"It won't matter which you begin or end with," said Maisie, "because
there isn't any first and last in the Round Robin."
From this moment all Dennis's energy and interest were spent upon
getting the Round Robin signed. He could talk and think of nothing
else, but though Maisie was eager for its success too, it did not
entirely take her mind from other things. She often thought, for
instance, of the two kittens in their new homes, and wondered how they
were getting on, and whether Blanche was beginning to be a "comfort" to
Philippa. Darkie was certainly growing handsome and more amusing every
day, but perhaps he could not exactly be considered a "comfort." Madam,
his mother, at any rate did not find him one, and was often very vexed
with him, because he would not give up the pranks and follies of
childhood. She could no longer put up with it patiently, when he
pounced upon her tail if she happened to whisk it, or played leap-frog
over her back like a small black goblin. On such occasions she would
spit at him angrily, and box his ears with the whole strength of her
outstretched arm, but Darkie did not care a bit. He must play with some
one, and as Peter the dog would not notice him, there was no one left
but Madam. Dennis and Maisie were quite ready to have a game, but they
were not to be compared to cats for fun and frolic, and besides, they
began to have some tiresome ideas about training and education. Darkie
must be taught to beg like Peter. Every morning, before he was allowed
to taste his breakfast, he was made to go through certain exercises.
"Beg, Darkie, beg," Maisie would say, holding the plate high above his
head; and then Dennis would place him forcibly down on his hind-legs,
and lift up his front paws. Darkie was a cunning cat, and he soon found
that begging was to his advantage, so he learned his lesson quickly, but
it was only one of many which followed, and he got very tired of them.
"Darkie can beg," said Maisie, when she next saw Philippa. "How does
Blanche get on?"
Philippa had driven over to Fieldside with her mother one bright
afternoon in April, and now she and Maisie were in the garden, Dennis as
usual being absent on business connected with the Round Robin. Maisie
had been very pleased to see Philippa when she first arrived, for she
wanted to hear about the white kitten, and she looked forward to a
pleasant talk with her. Before she had been there five minutes,
however, it was easy to see that she was not in a nice mood. That was
the worst of Philippa, Maisie always found. You could never take her up
just at the point you left her; she might be agreeable, and she might be
just the opposite. To-day she had her grown-up manner, and was full of
little affected airs and graces, and Maisie, glancing at her once or
twice, saw the reason of it. Philippa was wearing a new hat of the
latest fashion, covered with the most beautiful drooping feathers, and
she could not forget it for a moment.
"If I can find Darkie," repeated Maisie, "you should see him beg. He
does it most beautifully."
"Fancy!" said Philippa, with a slight drawl and a little laugh. "Well,
Blanche doesn't need to _beg_ for anything. She gets all she wants
without that.--Where's Dennis?"
Maisie repeated the story of Tuvvy and the Round Robin, and Philippa
laughed again.
"What odd things you do," she said. "Mother says you're not a bit like
other people."
Maisie had been searching in vain for Darkie in all his usual haunts,
and calling him at intervals, but no kitten appeared; there was only old
Madam curled up in the sun, blinking in lazy comfort.
"I'm afraid I shan't find him," she said, with a disappointed face.
"He's such a cunning cat. He knows we want to teach him things, so he
often hides. Very likely he's watching us now, somewhere quite near.
But I did so want you to see him beg."
"Why do you teach him things?" asked Philippa, "It must be a great
trouble to you, and he doesn't like it either."
"Oh, but it's good for him to learn," said Maisie. "It makes him
obedient and well-behaved.--Don't you teach Blanche anything?"
"Oh dear, no," said Philippa. "She would scratch me if I tried,
directly."
Maisie looked grave. "Do you think Blanche is growing a nice cat?" she
asked presently.
Philippa tossed her head, and made all the feathers on her hat wave.
"She ought to be," she said, "for she has all sorts of advantages.
She's got bells, and ribbons, and a clockwork mouse, but she hasn't a
very nice disposition. She often scratches. Miss Mervyn's quite afraid
of her, and mother would send her away at once if she wasn't mine."
Maisie sighed. "I'm sorry," she said, but in her own mind she felt sure
that the white kitten was not properly managed.
"I wonder," she added aloud, "how the grey kitten will turn out. Aunt
Katharine's going in to Upwell to-morrow, and she's promised to call at
the tinsmith's and ask after it."
Philippa yawned, and did not seem to feel much interest in the grey
kitten.
"How do you like my hat?" she asked, with a sudden liveliness in her
voice. Before Maisie could answer, Aunt Katharine called the children
from the drawing-room window. Mrs Trevor was going away, and just as
they were seated in the carriage Dennis appeared, rather hot, but
glowing with triumph.
"Half of them have signed," he said, waving the Round Robin in the air
as he approached. Philippa leaned back languidly beside her mother, and
gave a little affected wave of the hand to her cousins as she drove
away.
"What's the matter with Philippa?" asked Dennis. "She's got something
new on, I suppose."
Without waiting for an answer, he proceeded to tell all he had done that
afternoon. No one had refused to sign, although some of the men had a
good deal to say before they did so, and others looked as though they
did not understand the Round Robin very clearly.
"But I think it will be all right," finished Dennis; "and if I get them
all, Mr Solace can't refuse to let Tuvvy stop, can he?"
Maisie agreed rather absently, for she was still thinking over her talk
with Philippa. The white kitten's home did not seem to have turned out
very well so far, and she had expected it to be the best. Perhaps the
grey kitten's humble abode would be happier, after all, than Haughton
Park.
"Madam," she said, turning to the old cat, who had chosen a sunny spot
on the window ledge, and was taking a nap, "I've got some news for you.
Aunt Katharine's going to call at the tinsmith's--that's where old
Sally's Eliza lives, you know--and ask after your grey kitten."
"_She_ doesn't care," said Dennis, laughing contemptuously, but Maisie
knew Madam was pleased, for she tucked her front paws under her and
purred. She would no doubt be anxious to hear about her kitten, and the
next afternoon, when the time came to expect Aunt Katharine back from
Upwell, Maisie stood waiting in the hall with the old cat tucked under
her arm. Madam should hear the news directly it came. It seemed a long
time in coming, and even when at last Aunt Katharine drove up to the
door, she had so many parcels to look after, and so much to say about
them, that Maisie could not ask any questions. She followed her aunt
into the sitting-room, with Madam still clutched tightly to her side.
"What is it, Maisie dear?" said Miss Chester. "Oh, the kitten, to be
sure. I went to see it, but I'm sorry to tell you that they're afraid
it has run away."
At this sad news Madam struggled so violently that Maisie was obliged to
let her slip down to the floor. Run away! That was the last thing
Maisie had thought of.
"Oh Aunt Katharine," she cried, "how did it run away? Why did they let
it?"
But there was not much to be told about this. It was supposed that the
kitten had run through the shop out into the street, and lost its way.
At any rate, it had disappeared, and the tinsmith's wife was very sorry.
"Then," said Maisie, "it's lost! She might have taken more care of it.
I wish we hadn't given it to her!"
Poor little grey kitten! Homeless and helpless in the wide world! It
was so sad to think of it, that Maisie could not help crying, in spite
of Aunt Katharine's attempts to comfort her.
"After all," she sobbed out, "it hasn't got a home at all, and we did
take such trouble to find it one."
"Well, darling," said her aunt, "we must hope it has got a good home
still. Very likely some kind person found it, and took care of it."
"Do you really think so?" said Maisie, rubbing her eyes and looking up
with a gleam of hope; "but perhaps," she added sorrowfully, "an unkind
person met it."
Aunt Katharine smiled and kissed her little niece.
"Unfortunately, there are unkind people in the world, dear Maisie," she
said; "but I don't think there are many who would hurt a little harmless
kitten. So we must take all the comfort we can, and perhaps some day we
shall find it again."
Maisie did her best to look on the bright side of the misfortune, but
she could not help thinking of all the dangers the grey kitten was
likely to meet. There were so many dogs in Upwell, dogs like Snip and
Snap who delighted in chasing cats. There were carts and carriages too,
and many things which the kitten was far too young to understand. Its
ignorance of the world would lead it into all sorts of perils, and there
was little chance that it would ever be heard of again. She tried to
break the bad news as gently as possible to Madam, who seemed to listen
with indifference, and presently fell off to sleep, as though there were
no such thing as lost kittens in the world. Dennis also did not show
very much concern; but he was just now so busy with other matters that
perhaps this was not surprising.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
FOUND!
Meanwhile, what had become of the grey kitten? To learn this we must go
back to the time when it began its life in the tinsmith's house at
Upwell under the care of old Sally's Eliza. It was kept in the kitchen
at first, but by degrees, as it got used to the place, it was allowed to
run about where it liked, and its favourite room was the little back
parlour opening into the shop. Now the shop was forbidden ground, and
it was always chased back if it tried to enter: so perhaps it was for
this very reason that it seemed to have fixed its mind on doing it, and
one afternoon the chance came. Its mistress was busy behind the counter
serving some customers: the parlour door was open; no one noticed the
grey kitten, and it marched boldly in.
Pleased to find itself in the midst of so many new and shining things,
it played about happily for some time, trying to catch the merry shadowy
figures which danced on all the bright surfaces around. It was great
fun at first, to make springs and dashes at them with its soft little
paws, but finding they were never to be caught, it got tired, and looked
about for fresh amusement. Unluckily its eye fell on the open door
leading into the busy street, and without a thought of fear it trotted
out, and cantered, tail on high, gaily down the pavement.
Too young to understand that it was in the midst of dangers, it saw
nothing to alarm, and much that was amusing in all it passed. Now and
then it stopped on its way to play with a straw, or chase a fly, and by
degrees got a long distance from the tinsmith's shop. It was now late
in the afternoon, a drizzling rain had begun to fall, and it was so dull
and cold that it was almost like winter. The kitten began to feel wet
and miserable. It looked round for shelter and warmth, shook one little
damp paw, and gave a tiny mew.
"Hulloa!" cried a rough loud voice, "what's this?" A rough hand grasped
it, and held it up high above the ground.
A troop of boys was pouring out from a school-house near, shouting,
whistling, calling out to each other, and making the place echo with
their noise. The one who had seized the kitten was a big stout fellow
of about fourteen, with red hair and small greenish eyes.
"Who wants a cat to make into pies?" he bawled at the top of his voice,
holding his prize above the crowd of boys who gathered round him. The
kitten, its little weak body dangling helplessly, turned its terrified
eyes downwards on all the eager faces.
"Who'll buy?" cried the boy again.
"Mi-auw," said the kitten piteously.
"Give yer five marbles for it, Bill!"
"Give yer tuppence."
"Give yer a lump of hardbake."
One after another the shrill voices sounded above the general noise and
clatter, but Bill shook his head.
"Not near enough," he said; "and come to think of it, I shall keep it
myself, and have some sport with it. We'll have a cat-chase, sure's my
name's Bill."
As he spoke, another boy joined the group. He was much smaller than
Bill, slight and thin, with a brown face and very twinkling dark eyes.
His clothes were poor, and there was more than one hole in the ragged
jacket buttoned tightly round him.
"I'll give yer my knife for't, Bill," he said quickly.
This was a good offer. Bill hesitated; but casting a glance at the
boy's dark eager face, he exclaimed:
"Ah, it's you, is it, Dan Tuvvy; then don't you wish you may get it?
I'll just keep it myself."
"'Tain't yourn," said Dan shrilly.
"'Tain't yourn, anyhow," said Bill, with a glare in his green eyes.
The small boy's features worked with excitement. "I'll fight yer for
it, then," he said, doubling his fists, and at this there was a loud
laugh from the others, for he was about half Bill's size.
"Go it, Tuvvy," cried one, patting him on the back; "go in and win."
"I ain't a-goin' to fight a little chap like you," said Bill, moving off
sullenly with the kitten under his arm. "So don't you think it."
"You give me the cat, then," said Dan, following him. "'Ere's my knife,
with three blades, and on'y one broke."
"Git out with yer," said Bill contemptuously. "I tell yer I'm a-goin'
to have a cat-chase with this 'ere kitten. So no more bother about it."
"You're afraid," snarled Dan, running along by his side. "I wouldn't be
a big chap like you, and be afraid--that I wouldn't."
"Take that, then," said Bill, turning suddenly, "if you _will_ have it;"
and he gave the small boy a blow which struck him to the ground.
In a moment he was up again, quite undaunted.
"Come on, then," he cried, doubling his fists and dancing round his
enemy, "if you _aren't_ afraid."
"A fight! a fight!" sounded from all sides; and there seemed no doubt of
it, for Bill's temper was roused.
"Ketch 'old for a minnit," he said, holding out the kitten, for which a
dozen grimy hands were outstretched; "'twon't take long--"