CHAPTER XVI.

A RUNAWAY'S STORY.

THE old Squire had always made a point of having a civil word for both dogs whenever he went to the farm; so that, as he said, both Blazer and Grip were tolerably familiar with him. On the present occasion, however, Blazer was too much delighted at getting his own way to show any disagreeable tempers. He did nothing but run and leap and bark in an ecstasy of triumph, looking back from time to time, to make sure that he was being followed, and exerting himself ten times more than was necessary, in his efforts to incite them to speed.

But the uneven surface of the track was less easy for Hal's crutches than the open road; and Blazer had to be content with rather slow progress, whilst Maggie ran backwards and forwards, jumping and calling, thoroughly enjoying the fun, and doing her best, by her own excitement, to keep up Blazer's.

They had not proceeded very far in this manner, however, when Blazer changed his course, darting in amongst the undergrowth.

The Squire pulled up.

"Now, Blazer, old boy," said he, "that isn't just the sort of place an old gentleman finds convenient to scramble through. What do you want with it?"

But the dog was evidently in real earnest. There was no mistake about that. He trotted on a little way ahead, then turned and leapt and barked, and came bounding back, jumping round the Squire, and all but beckoning him to come.

"What a pity he can't speak!" exclaimed Hal, looking up into his grandfather's face, as if to read his thoughts.

"We must contrive to go with him somehow, that's certain," returned the Squire, stopping to consider; "or, at least, I must. He has found something, and he wants to show it us. Hal, you wait here with Maggie; no, stay! Let Maggie come with me, in case I want a messenger."

And putting one shoulder to the hazel bushes, to Blazer's infinite delight, the old gentleman commenced pushing his way in amongst them, Maggie following close upon his heels.

A shade of disappointment came over Hal's face. This was how he had to feel his affliction every now and then. But Hal was not a boy to stop at disappointment. He only stood still a minute or so; then turning, set off down the track again, to search for an opening by which to reach the spot whither the dog was leading them—sure, at all events, of knowing by his barks the direction that they took.

He had but just lighted on a cross track when the barking ceased. They must have reached the place.

Hal stopped to listen just an instant, then set forward, breathing fast, and flushing with his exertions to lose no time, and hoping that as Blazer had led them off in a slanting direction, this track, which crossed the cartway at right angles, would converge with their path.

Presently, however, the track ended in a sort of winding path, which seemed to lead into thicker and thicker tangle. Hal stopped, perplexed, and listened, but could hear no sound. Next minute, however, Blazer's bark sounded out again, short and sharp; once, twice, thrice. Hal set forward instantly, with increased vigour, and after following the windings of the path for a short distance, he was able to distinguish voices, whilst every now and then Blazer gave a sharp bark, as if to call him on.

All on a sudden, an idea struck Hal, and resting on his crutches to get breath, he called Blazer's name with all his might.

The plan succeeded. Blazer heard, and gave an answering bark. In a few seconds, Hal heard the crackling of the dry leaves under his paws; then out he rushed along the path. They were not far off, and Hal was going straight for them. He hurried on after the dog.

"Where are you, grandfather?" called he, when he got near enough to distinguish the Squire's voice.

"Here!" was the reply.

And at the same instant, Hal spied Maggie's pink apron through the bushes.

Hal paused a second; then pushing one crutch in among the twigs, he made his way to where the others were.

The Squire was bending over something on the ground, Maggie kneeling by his side. "He's opening his eyes!" cried she, as Hal came up.

And there, to his astonishment, half-raised upon the turf mound at the foot of a hazel clump, lay the long-lost runaway, Bill the Kicker.

Bill drew a long breath and rolled his eyes round; then the lids dropped to again.

Maggie gave vent to an exclamation of mingled pity and disappointment, and the Squire observed,—

"It's evidently a case of starvation. From the look of him, I should imagine that the young scamp has kept away as long as he could hold out. If Blazer hadn't happened to find him, he would have died here before night."

The sound of voices roused Bill again. His eyes opened, and he drew another long breath. Then suddenly a look of bewilderment came over his face. "Where 'm I got to?" he asked excitedly.

But before any one could answer, he had recognised the Squire. The bewildered look gave place to one of terror, and Bill made a desperate effort at scrambling to his feet; but he had long since reached the point when starved and exhausted nature could do no more. He only fell back upon the bank with a sick and dizzy sensation, and his eyelids closed again.

"Lie still, my boy," said the Squire kindly. "You must have something to eat. You're starving."

Bill put his hand to his waist-belt. He had ceased to remember that he was hungry; but the Squire's words brought back the craving. He recollected how he had felt before he swooned.

"Have either of you anything eatable about you?"' asked the Squire, turning to Hal and Maggie. "A sweetmeat, or a bit of biscuit; anything that he could suck or munch."

Hal had not. He was not a boy who cared for sweets. Maggie, however, produced a chocolate drop, given her over the counter by the grocer's man.

"But what is that when he's starving!" exclaimed she.

"All the better," returned the Squire. "In his present state, it would be dangerous to give him much. But you may run home," added he, as Bill eagerly took the tiny mouthful and crunched it up. "Run home—you can find your way?—And bring cup of bread or biscuit sopped in milk—or water, if you can't find milk; be as quick as ever you can. The poor boy is nearly starved."

Some good people would have tried to get Bill's story out of him whilst Maggie was running for the food. But Hal's grandfather did no such thing, having too much common sense, as well as too much pity for the boy. Besides, his story was so plainly told by every feature of his face, and every inch of tattered garment that he wore. His whole appearance seemed to say, in language that no eyes could fail to read, that it was one thing to get into a scrape and run away in order to escape the consequence, but quite another thing to keep decent clothes upon his back, and pick up food enough to hold the wolf at bay. In short, poor Bill had learnt the value of a home.

[Illustration: THE SQUIRE FINDS BILL THOROUGHLY EXHAUSTED.]

Meanwhile, Maggie had scrambled back to the cart-track, making fearful havoc of her zephyr apron in her haste; and had torn home, panting and breathless, taking the ditch at a bound, and astonishing beyond measure her mother, who was just returning up the garden path. On learning what had happened, however, Mrs. Rust quickly made the pap, and, calling up the stairs to Farmer Bluff, set off with Maggie to the spot.

"I made it warm, sir," said she, as she knelt down by Bill's side to feed him from the cup.

Bill took it eagerly, and would have made short work of it, had he not been restrained. It quickly revived him, however, and he sat up, looking very much as if he would like to run away again.

"You'll be all the better for that, my boy," said Mrs. Rust, standing back a step or two with the empty cup in her hand.

But Bill felt rather foolish. He looked from one to another of the group round him, and said nothing.

The Squire was the first to speak. "Well, young man," said he, possessing himself of his gold-headed cane, which he had laid down beside Bill on first stooping to examine him; "I'm glad to see you've come home again. And I hope you've had enough of a lesson about the folly of running away."

Bill hung his head. "I don't know as I'm going home," said he, in a low, dogged tone of voice.

"Oh! Don't you?" said the Squire. "I'll take care of that."

"Likely!" continued Bill defiantly. "To have the strap."

"Perhaps, if you behave well, and answer all I want to know," returned the Squire, "I may feel inclined to beg you off the strapping—though I must confess that you deserve it every bit."

Bill subsided and looked down, waiting in sullen silence to be questioned, whilst Maggie drew a little nearer, moving her eyes rapidly from him to the Squire with lively interest.

"Why did you run away?" commenced the Squire.

Maggie's eyes went back to Bill.

"'Cause he told me to," said Bill.

"He?" rejoined the Squire. "Who's he?"

"Him what I stole the egg for," answered Bill. "Dick Crozier, sir."

"Dick Crozier!" exclaimed Hal and his grandfather in a breath. "Mind you're not inventing lies," added the Squire. "Why, dear me," he continued half-aside, "I had fancied him a better lad. It seems incredible!"

"He said as you was comin' round a purpose to 'indemnifight' me," Bill went on; "an' if he was me, he wouldn't stand still to be took."

What Bill had supposed this terrible word to mean, it would be hard to determine; but he had kept on repeating it to himself all the way he had run, until it had got so mixed up as to come out entirely wrong. "Nor I wasn't going to neither," added Bill, with the defiant look again.

"How came you to steal an egg for him?" asked the Squire next.

"'Cause I wanted sixpence," answered Bill. "But he's as bad as me," added Bill eagerly. "He hadn't ought to ha' taken what I'd stole. I've heard my father say so once."

"Quite right," rejoined the Squire. "Receiving stolen goods is punishable by law. He sucked this egg, then, I suppose; and gave you sixpence for it."

Then came out the history of how Bill's evil conscience had brought about the smashing of the eggs; and how, in self-defence, he had inflicted on the unfortunate goose the injuries that had caused her death. "I didn't want to hurt her, sir," said Bill; "but when one o' them things is after you—"

"It's rather terrible, I must admit," returned the Squire, hardly able to restrain a smile. "Then you didn't get your sixpence after all?"

"Yes, I did though," replied Bill quickly, with a cunning grin. "He guv it me to keep from splitting, 'cause he knew as how if I was caught, I was bound to let out who I'd stole it for. If it hadn't been for that," said Bill, whose meal had pretty well revived him by this time, "and t' other, what I got for bein' made a pictur' of, I'm blest if I'd 'a' had a rag o' flesh on any o' my bones by now—grub's that hard to get."

"Ah! Recollect that, next time that you're tempted to do wrong," returned the Squire solemnly.

"But he was just as bad as me," repeated Bill, who seemed inclined to take comfort in companionship in his disgrace.

He found, however, that the Squire entertained a different view of the matter. "Gently," said he. "You had the first of it; for you put temptation in his way, by offering to undertake the theft. But now, one question more. What did you want the sixpence for?"

Bill hung his head and looked more than half a mind not to answer; but he changed his mind, thinking that it was sure to come out, and that, all things considered, he had better enjoy the merit of making a clean breast of the whole affair.

"'Cause I wanted a new knife," said he; "and so I'd borrowed sixpence from the rent."

"You've got to beg me off the strapping, sir," said Bill, as they set off back towards the cartway, a few minutes later; "'cause you promised if I answered square."

"And when I promise anything, I keep my word," replied the Squire, rather pleased than otherwise with the boy's straightforwardness. He took occasion by the way, however, to administer a lecture on the wickedness of breaking in through hedges after other people's property. "If Blazer had caught you there, instead of half dead in this wood," said he, "he would have shown you little mercy, you may make quite sure."

Bill also related by degrees a lot of his adventures since leaving home; how he had escaped along the riverbank, running till his breath gave out, and walking till he nearly dropped, to reach the town before the night came on; how he had slept under porches or in doorways, in wind and wet and darkness, frightened, cold, and wretched, night after night; and how, after his food and money were all gone, he had begged for work, and gone from door to door to ask a piece of bread, until he grew so weak and wild with living on the scanty crusts he got, that he began to wish he had not run away.

"Leastways," said Bill, "I wished I hadn't stole the eggs."

And he went on to tell how at the last he had determined to come back, but had not had the courage to face his parents' anger; and so had wandered on into the wood, and round to the back of the two cottages, where he was about to beg food, when to his surprise, he spied Blazer chained up, and Blazer spied him.

"And for the life of me I durstn't ask," said Bill; "so I cut away into the wood, and there I tumbled down."

"And there you would have died," the Squire added, "if Blazer had not broken loose and followed on your track, and found you where you lay, you poor silly boy. Well, you have had your punishment; and I can promise you, your parents will be glad enough to see you back. Only mind you show that you are worthy of forgiveness by making a fresh start."

Arrived at Farmer Bluffs, Bill was glad to sit down quietly and have some more to eat, whilst the Squire went and saw Blazer's collar mended up. As for Blazer, he came quite gently to take a biscuit and a lump of sugar out of Maggie's hand, and then submitted to have the chain put on; after which, he retired into his kennel, and lay down to rest.

Then the Squire, having directed Mrs. Rust to search the other collar out, or get a new one made, set out with Bill, to see him safe into his parents' hands.

[Illustration]