CHAPTER II.

TOM MAKES A HORSE-SHOE.

ADDERLEY came home late that night, and found his wife waiting for him, with a pint of beer warming on the hob, and a "bite" of bread-and-cheese on the table, ready for him.

"I thought you'd be hungry, Thomas," said she. "And now tell me, what did Master Minchin say?"

"Says Tom will come to the gallows yet."

"O mercy! My fine boy! But I don't mind Master Minchin. He's a hot-tempered man, and maybe he's angered at losing Tom."

"Maybe, but he 'says' he's glad to be rid of him. Says as Tom puts the other lads up to mischief, and gives impudence when spoken to. Only two days gone, when he was helped to his dinner, he took his plate in his two hands and walked all up the room to where Mrs. Minchin was cutting the bacon, and holds out the plate to her, and says, 'Ma'am, will ye please to show me the bacon?' says he. 'I see the cabbage and the bread,' says he. Mrs. Minchin, she up'd and boxed his ears, and says he, 'That's no argument,' and the men and lasses all sniggering."

Mrs. Adderley turned her face away, and her voice shook a little as she said—

"O laws, how could he have the face? No wonder you look grave over it, Thomas."

"Mother, you're laughing."

"Well," said she, "but will the Minchins take him back?"

"No. 'He' would, but 'she' wouldn't have it. So I saw Giles, and 'tis true he wants a boy. It's a poor place for a strapping fellow like Tom—only twopence a day and his dinner. But it will take the conceit out of him, and I'm not set on his earning money to save. Don't you be soft with him, now, and say he may keep part of that twopence. Say he eats more than twopence, but that it's better than nothing. I don't believe it's for any good he wants to be saving. He ain't like Sam."

"No, but you can't deny, Thomas, he's cleverer than Sam. See how he mended them stools. Carpenter couldn't do it handier. See how he patched his shoes t'other day. Cobbler couldn't beat it. And can tell every letter, though he got no more schooling than the others, and Sam can't tell the letters of his own name on his cart, no more than I can myself. Oh, he's clever both with his head and his fingers, and if we could 'prentice him in Wakefield, Thomas, he'd do well."

"'Prentice him in Wakefield! Woman dear, are ye losing your wits? Why, Master Bell's sons, two of 'em, is 'prenticed there, and I wonder what Farmer Bell and my own master would say if I tried to do the like with 'my' son? Little work I'd get, I do expect. Set Tom up, forsooth! Let him work honest for his daily bread, as his father, and my father, and 'his' father, ay, and 'his' father again, if so be he had one, did before him. No good comes of being proud and above your station. I'll keep Tom's nose to the grindstone for a goodish bit, and then maybe master will take him on, under me, and I'll teach him to plough, and have my eye upon him."

With these words, Thomas swallowed the last morsel of bread-and-cheese, and took up the pot of beer.

"Here, mother, take your share; and don't fret about Tom—I'll soon bring him in. Why, you've took no more than if you was a sparrer. Take another drop. Ye won't? Well, here's your health, then. We can't waste the good beer."

He finished the beer slowly, the better to enjoy it, and then said in a lower voice—

"I think I'll have a look at Tom. If I find him awake and hungry, a crust of bread won't set him up too much."

He crossed the kitchen, and opened the door of the little room where the boys slept. And finding Tom in bed and snoring, he never suspected how nearly he had caught him wide awake and listening eagerly at the keyhole.

"He's asleep. He'll make up for it at breakfast, never fear," said Thomas. "Sam isn't in bed."

"No; he's not in yet. You go off to bed, and I'll wait for Sam. He won't be long. Reg'lar as a clock, Sam is."

"Jenny Waters is a lucky young maid," remarked Thomas.

Mrs. Adderley said nothing—privately she thought her Sam a great deal too good for Jane Waters.

In a very short time, the house was shut up and every one was asleep, save Tom. He was hungry, and could not get to sleep, so he lay thinking.

"Reg'lar as clockwork, Sam is! Of course he is! He's just such another as father. It's my belief father wouldn't rise in life if he could. I'm not so. I want to get rich and have a farm, like old Minchin—only never will I be such a screw. And I want to see the world, and to have a chance to be something but a ploughman or a carter, and I will too. Old Dwight says if I had a few guineas, but I'd go if I had a few shillings saved. And I'm to blow the bellows—work fit for a four-year-old—for twopence a day, and I'm not to be let save! Well, I'm glad I know it's a set plan, for, if not, I might have gone on from day to day till I got to be as stupid as the rest of them. To work with Giles till the conceit is taken out of me, and then to learn ploughing under father's eye! Well, we'll see."

He fell asleep at last. When he had eaten a most tremendous breakfast next morning, he asked very innocently—

"Am I to go to Master Minchin's, father?"

Father, very naturally, improved the occasion.

Tom listened dutifully. Having heard that he was to go to the forge, he said not one word of remonstrance, but walked off, whistling. He was always whistling or singing.

Tom kept his place for about a week, and if Giles had cared to teach him his craft, this story would probably never have been written. For Tom took a fancy to the blacksmith's work, and longed to try his hand at it. And one day Giles, coming in suddenly, found his own hopeful son, a lazy young giant, blowing the bellows, and Tom Adderley working manfully at a horse-shoe. Moreover, at a better shoe than young Giles had yet made, though he was supposed to be learning. Giles dismissed Tom that night.

"Little Ben," he said, "is all right now, and you will easily get work. I don't want you about the forge, mind. Don't be coming here after my boys—I won't have it."

Tom whistled, and walked home.

"Father, Giles has dismissed me."

"And why, Tom?"

"'Cause I made a better horse-shoe than young Giles can, and he's afraid I'll learn the trade and set up for myself."

"The conceit of this boy!" cried Thomas Adderley, much moved. "I must go to Giles and see what he says."

"I don't know what he'll say, father, but I've told you the truth. I went to work to-day while he was out—young Giles is lazy and was glad to give up the hammer to me. Old Giles came in, and when he looked at the shoe, and then at me, I guessed how 'twould be. Three days, mother—there's sixpence."

Adderley went to the forge. Giles told him that Tom was idle, and had spoilt a horse-shoe, fiddling at it with the hammer, because his eye was off him for a moment. He preferred having little Ben, who was quite well again.

"My boy says he made a good horse-shoe," said Adderley.

"Judge for yourself; there 'tis," answered Giles.

But he did not say that he had heated the shoe and beaten it out of shape since Tom's departure.

"Tom Adderley's too clever for me," Giles said to his wife that night. "He'd be a better smith in six months than our boy will ever be; it wouldn't do at all."

Thomas Adderley went home, much grieved at this fresh instance of Tom's conceit. He hated to do it, but Tom really wanted a flogging so badly that he must have one; and he had one, and was sent off to bed afterwards. It was by no means a severe beating, and Tom was none the worse—except mentally. He had told the truth, and father would not believe him. He would have liked to be a blacksmith, and Giles would not let him. He had lost one place after another, and knew that it would be very hard to get work.

"I'll run away," muttered Tom. "I'll go to sea, and be a sailor, and see the world. I've good brains and strong arms, and I won't stay here to be treated like a baby. Let me see now; I must have 'some' money. Maybe Master Dwight would lend me some. He has savings, I know. I'll ask him, anyhow."

Tom was sent, next day, to work in the garden, as his father had nothing better to propose. He worked for an hour or so, and then jumped over the fence into the Trayners' garden. Peeping in at the window, he saw his friend Lucy alone in the kitchen, so he ran round to the door and went in.

"Lucy dear, if you hear that I've run away, don't you believe it—I mean, I'm going to run away, but I'll surely come back. I can't stay here, Lucy. I'll go, and I'll see the world, and get a lot of money, and then I'll come home and buy a farm, and marry you, Lucy, for I'm very fond of you. Don't you tell any one that I said a word to you, but I couldn't go with saying good-bye."

Lucy, a pretty, gentle girl, not burdened with more brains or more learning than her neighbours, was terribly frightened. She was sure he'd be caught and brought home, and beaten. She was sure he'd be lost, and starved to death. She was sure he'd get to be a great man, and forget every one at Burdeck, including herself. Tom combated all these predictions one by one; to the last, his reply was perhaps more sincere than gallant.

"That's impossible," said he, "for though I might forget you, Lucy, and every one else, I never could forget mother—nor father, though he did not believe me. Well, good-bye, Lucy; you'll see me again one of these days—maybe riding in my carriage, or on a fine horse. 'Then' you'll be proud of me. Mind now, keep my secret."

He ran off, leaving Lucy in tears.

Tom found old Dwight in his usual summer retreat, a warm corner in his son-in-law's garden. It is to be hoped that he had reflected duly on his latter end, for he was certainly taking the little doze which he had mentioned as being refreshing after that exercise. However, he woke up, and said he was glad to see Tom.

"I like you, Tom. You've got some brains, and you know the difference between a man like me and these fellows, honest fellows all of 'em, but that never saw the tenth milestone out o' Burdeck."

"I 'do' know the difference," said Tom, eagerly, "and I've made up my mind, Master Dwight, that I'll do as you did. I'll see the world. I'm going to run away. I'll be a sailor, and I'll make my fortune. I know I shan't do it all at once, but you'll see, I'll do it. And I want your advice and help."

"Seems to me," said old Dwight, "as you've pretty well made up your mind without my advice."

"Yes—to go. But tell me what you would advise me to do."

"Go to Hull—there's your place. How to get there, you say. Well, go to Wakefield—you know the road that leads to Wakefield. There's a coach goes through Wakefield, and at the coach office they'll tell you how to get to Hull. But let me tell you, my lad, you might do better than go for a sailor."

"Oh, but I must see the world!" cried Tom. "I'm that tired of everything here that it's like a hunger in me—the wish to see the world. And, Master Dwight, would you lend me money enough to pay the coach, and just to live till I get to Hull?"

"Oh, that's a very different matter," said Master Dwight, slowly. "Tom, I don't see how I could do that. To give you money to run away—when your father found it out, he'd have me in Wakefield Jail, he would. It's against the law, my boy. That's the plain truth. Only for that, I should be very glad to oblige you, and I think you're quite right to go, but I can't break the law for you."

It did not occur to Tom, at the moment, to doubt Master Dwight's assertion about the law. He looked very downcast.

"D'ye mind, my boy, what you told me once about your mother having some money saved? You talk her over, and get her to give you a guinea or so. If she lent you a good sum—say, 'ten' guineas for argument's sake—you'd be able to set up in some small way o' business, and you're sharp enough to make money, if you once had a decent start. Tell her it's only a lend, and that you'll surely pay it back. You'll do well, Tom; and when you're a rich man, you'll remember poor old Jeremiah Dwight that taught you, and heartened you up, and helped you all he could."

Master Dwight seemed quite affected, no doubt by his own generosity with Mrs. Adderley's money. If you ask me why he encouraged Tom to run away, I must confess that it was partly because he had so often sneered at the Burdeck people for their contented stupid ways that he felt ashamed to say a word against the result of his own words. Again, he found Burdeck very dull, and the row that would ensue when Tom was missed promised to be amusing.

"Well," remarked Tom, after a short pause for reflection, "you'll keep my secret, Master Dwight, though you can't help me? For I shall go, even if I go with only this—" holding out twopence—"in my pocket. I must run home now, or I may be missed. Good-bye, Master Dwight; I'm thankful to you for all you've taught me."

He ran off, and found that he had not been missed. For the rest of the day he worked very hard in the little garden.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]