CHAPTER I.

ONE CHANCE BY SEA, AND ONE BY LAND.

MANY years ago, when railroads were not quite so common as they are now, and when no one knew how completely they would change the face of old England and the habits and manners of her children, some workmen from Birmingham were employed in laying the rails of a line which was to connect a certain small seaport in Essex with an inland town twenty miles off, which already possessed railroad communication with London. I shall call this tiny seaport—now a considerable place, thanks to this very railway—Sandsea, and the town Kingsmore, though these are not the real names of the places.

The railway was being made for the benefit of the salt trade: there were extensive salt marshes near Sandsea, and hitherto the salt had been sent to London or other places by sea, which was a serious impediment to the trade, as the Essex coast is a very unsafe one.

It was in the month of March, and the weather was bright and dry, but bitterly cold. A north-east wind blew in from the sea and swept over the somewhat level face of the country, nipping any silly little plants which had ventured to show their noses, and nipping too, not only the noses, but the fingers and toes of all who were exposed to its blast.

Several miles of the permanent way had been made, and about two miles of rail, beginning at Sandsea. On these rails the workmen ran a lorry, which carried their tools and the greater part of their own number to the scene of their labour. But the person who brought the men their midday meal had no lorry at her command, and it was a pretty heavy load. She was the wife of the chief workman, who was in command of the party, and except bread, she brought out everything required for a good hearty dinner for the whole gang; the bread they took with them in the morning. This arrangement had worked very well for some time, but one day twelve o'clock passed, and the welcome sight of dinner was not to be seen.

The north part of Essex is not quite so flat as the south; but the hills are low and rounded, and there are no very striking features in the landscape. In a cutting through one of these hills there was a semicircular excavation, where it was intended to build a tool-house presently; but just now it was very useful to the men, as it afforded them shelter from the wind, and for several days they had used it as their dining-room.

"Well, mates!" said Tom Avery, a tall, good-humoured looking fellow, dressed in white flannels, which were wonderfully clean, considering the nature of his work. "Whatever has come to my missis? There's a clock inside of me that says it's past twelve."

"Long past," said another man—a stoutly made surly-looking fellow, with wonderfully black hair. "And I'd like my dinner—I don't deny it."

Tom Avery stood up, shaded his eyes with his hands, and took a good look along the line.

"I see her now!" said he. But a few moments more showed him that unless Bess Avery had turned into a boy, or taken it into her head to put on a boy's dress, this was not his "missis," though it was undoubtedly his missis's basket that the lad carried on his arm, and carried with more ease than its rightful owner ever did.

"Well to be sure! What's up with Bess?" said Tom Avery.

The men all ceased their work, and gazed at the rapidly approaching stranger.

"Blessed hour!" cried a red-headed lad, whose voice proclaimed him an Irishman. "What 'll ye say if he's shoved her into the bog, and made love to the basket?"

A shout of laughter hailed this remark.

"The bog! What's a bog?—You'll mean the marsh, I suppose?" said one.

"And if he stole the basket, he would hardly have come here with it," said another.

"Well, how did he get it, then? Would Bess be very likely to give her basket to the like of he?"

"Look here, Paddy," said Tom Avery, "none of your cheek. My missis has another name besides Bess."

"And I've another name besides Paddy, which isn't me name at all! Larry Deasy, me name is, Mr. Avery."

Here the basket-bearer came within hail, and the matter of the names was dropped for the time.

"Hullo, young chap, where did you get that basket?"

The boy came on, laid down his load on the ground, straightened himself, and drew a long breath. Then he said,—

"Are you Thomas Avery?"

"Mr. Avery; none of your cheek," put in Deasy softly.

"I am; that's me," said Tom, pretending not to hear this.

"Then I'm to give you this basket, and tell you that Mrs. Avery slipped on the rail about half a mile from the town and turned her ankle badly. She couldn't come on, and she didn't know what to do, when I came up to her; and I offered to bring it on for sixpence."

"For sixpence: and who's to give you the sixpence?" said Avery doubtfully.

"She paid me herself, and I lent her my stick to help her home."

"Oh, well, that's a different story. Thank ye, I'm sure it's all right. Come, mates, we must unpack for ourselves to-day."

A little heap of coke and sticks lay ready in the recess to light a fire on which to make some tea, as one or two of the party were temperance men. The basket was quickly emptied and the contents served out: the lad who had brought it had seated himself on the lorry and kept his face turned away, that he might not seem to be wishing for some of the food. The wind swept through the cutting, and he shivered; he was decently dressed, but by no means warmly.

"Come in and sit in the shelter," said Avery, "the wind there is enough to cut you in two."

"Thank you," the boy said, and came in among them, seating himself with his back to the bank.

"Look ye, mate, are ye hungry?"

It was the surly-looking man who spoke. The boy's involuntary glance at the bread and meat answered the question more truly than his tongue did.

"Thank you, sir, I'll do very well."

"Ye know ye're hungry," said the man in a half-angry voice.

"Well, when I'm rested a bit, I'll go back to the village and buy bread."

"Too proud to take a bite with us," was the next remark, in a deep growl.

"Faith, the more fool he!" said Deasy.

"I don't know about pride," the lad said, "but I'd rather earn it, thank you all the same."

"Oh, blessed hour, the like o' that!" Deasy cried, actually ceasing to eat in order to stare. "Musha then, if any one would offer to fill Larry Deasy at their own expense, 'tisn't me that would stand between them and their fancy."

"I'm not a beggar," the boy said shortly.

The surly man pondered a little, and then said,—

"Look ye now. I and two more of us drink tea, and Mrs. Avery, she do make it for us. If you light that fire and make that tea, I'll pay ye in bread and meat. How will that work?"

"That will work well!" the lad said, springing up gaily; "and I'm more obliged than I can say for the chance."

With quick, handy movements, he lighted the fire, and taking the kettle which his employer produced from some hiding-place, he ran to a stream a little way off and filled it. The tea, tied up in a bag, was popped in, and when the water boiled, the tea was made. Tin mugs were now produced, and then the tea-maker was liberally paid in bread and meat, with a mug of tea "for luck," the mail said, with a queer grimace which seemed meant for a smile. If the stranger had been loath to confess that he was hungry, he was by no means loath to eat; he made a splendid meal. And yet so generous was the supply, that he did not quite finish it. Picking up the paper in which the tea had been sent, he made a parcel of what remained, and put it in his pocket. Then he turned to his surly-spoken benefactor and said,—

"May I lie down here for a spell, sir? I'm dead sleepy; and maybe you'd rouse me up before you leave the place?"

"All right. Here's a couple of sacks to cover ye. It's rather cold for sleeping out o' doors."

"I didn't sleep a wink last night or the night before that," the boy said, as he curled himself up near the remains of the fire and covered himself with the sacks. He was asleep in five minutes, and never moved until, at six o'clock, the men came back to collect their scattered belongings.

"Bless the boy! I had nearly forgotten him!" cried Jack Sparling, which was the name of the tea-drinker. "Come, lad, rouse up!"

The boy jumped up, staring, and only half awake for a moment, but he soon remembered where he was and all about it; and while the men piled the tools on the lorry, he very neatly packed up the tins and knives and what was left of the dinner, in the basket. Sparling watched him, and saw that not so much as a crust was kept back for himself, and this gave him a good opinion of the lad, as there could be little doubt that he was in want. The boy brought the basket and laid it on the lorry, saying to Avery—

"If you please, sir, I'm to go to your lodgings with you, for Mrs. Avery took my bundle back with her when I took her basket, and she said I was to come with you and get it."

"All right, get up on the lorry. No, Deasy! not a bit of it, my lad. You rode all the way out this morning and wouldn't help, so you'll just walk, and push all the way in."

Deasy looked rebellious enough for a moment, but then said, with a laugh, "You may make me walk, but you can't make me push!" And darting forward, he ran away along the line, settling into a kind of trot when he was out of reach, and they saw him no more.

"Lazy young cub!" said Avery wrathfully. "They may well call him Easy Deasy; but I declare, since we began this job, that boy has been the plague of my life! He's got into idle company, that's how 'tis, and he'll lose his place yet."

"What's your name, boy?" said Sparling, who was seated beside the stranger on the lorry.

"Roger Read."

"Where d'ye come from?"

"Last from London, in a ship called the Sandlark."

"And what made them bring ye? For you're no sailor."

"No, indeed!" Roger answered, laughing. "But I was on the wharf looking out for chances, and some boy, the cabin boy they called him, was not to be found, so I offered to go; and another boat belonging to this place is to bring the right boy when it comes after us."

"But what made you come here? Have you no friends in London?"

"I've no friends anywhere. I want work, and in London there are so many looking out for jobs, that a stranger has no chance; so I said to myself, 'Here is a chance,' and so I offered, and they couldn't wait, and didn't like to go without a boy."

"And what are you going to do now?"

"I don't know yet; anything I can get to do."

"What did the sailors pay you?" asked Sparling, after a pause.

"Nothing at all," Roger said, laughing; "and enough, too, for all the work I did. Man, I got sick before we were out of the river, and I just lay like a log the whole way! I would have been thankful to any one that would have thrown me into the sea; and they thought I was shamming! One fellow beat me with a bit of rope—I'm black and blue with bruises; but at the time I didn't feel it, I was so bad. So, of course, they paid me nothing. I got the voyage, you know; and perhaps I may get a chance here."

"You're the lad for chances," said Avery, who was listening to the talk.

"My grandfather told me two rules, and he said if I kept to them I'd die a rich man. One is, 'Never lose a chance'; and the other, 'Earn your dinner before you eat it.' So far, I've minded them both. Why, how fast we've come! I'd no idea we had reached the village."

"The town, if you please," said Avery; "don't let the folk here catch you calling it a village; a seaport town, that's what Sandsea is."

At this the men, who were most of them from Birmingham, set up a laugh; and being now at the terminus, they dispersed, with careless "good-nights."

Sparling lodged in the same house with Avery, and boarded with the Averys, so they went off together, taking Roger with them. They found Mrs. Avery limping about in considerable pain; and she declared that "her man" would have found her sitting crying on the bank when he was coming home, but for "yon lad," who had helped her to her feet, bandaged her ankle with her handkerchief, and lent her his fine, thick stick.

"And there's your stick, my lad, and your bundle too, and I am really obliged to you."

"Keep the stick till you can walk without one, ma'am; it is a good one, for 'twas grandfather's; I'll come to you for it," said young Read, taking his bundle from her.

"Look here, boy," said Avery, "my missis won't carry that basket to the first cutting to-morrow nor yet next day, and if you'll do it, we'll pay you a halfpenny each and give you your dinner."

"Thank you, sir, I will gladly. Why, here's a chance already!" cried Roger, gleefully. "Good-night. Good-night, ma'am; I'll come in good time for the basket."

Sparling followed him out into the passage. "Where are you going to sleep, lad?"

"Well, I don't know yet," Roger answered.

"Come up and sleep in my room; I can lend you a blanket. You needn't be thinking—don't eat the blanket, and then you can face your grandfather."

Roger laughed. "Poor old grandfather!" he said. "He's dead and gone this year past. Well, thank you, sir, I shall be glad to have a roof over me."

But when Sparling shyly offered him a bite of bread and cheese, he refused, and lay down at once, rolled up in a blanket. And if hunger is the best sauce, fatigue is the best sleeping draught; so Roger slept soundly.