THE BOY TRAMP. (Continued from page 103.)

THE BOY TRAMP. (Continued from page 103.)

t was half-past six the next morning when I went to the farmer's back door, where the rough-looking maid provided me with a cup of coffee and a chunk of bread and butter, then, followed by Patch, I set out that Thursday morning on the road to Hazleton. The weather could not have been better, although the middle of the day promised to be excessively hot.

As I trudged along the pleasant road, I had some wild idea of reaching Hazleton that evening, but this was soon destroyed, for about a mile from the farm where we had slept, I noticed that Patch was limping. Sitting down on a heap of stones by the roadside, I looked at his near hind paw, and saw that it was nastily cut, so that he could only walk in great pain. I suppose he had trodden on a piece of glass in the road.

Now I realised that I was in an awkward plight. Of course, Patch must on no account be left behind; but, on the other hand, how was I to get him along? Tearing a piece off the edge of the sack, I frayed out some of the thread and made a kind of bag, which I put over the wounded paw, tying it round the leg. This took some time, and, as the job was finished and Patch was licking my hand by way of thanks, I saw a large van approaching from the direction of the farm, driven by one of the fattest men I had ever seen. The cart was laden with bottles of ginger-beer and mineral waters, but, as it passed us by, at a fair pace, a nosebag, which was tied behind, fell off into the road.

The driver, alone in the van, was entirely unaware of his loss until, rising from the heap of stones, I shouted to him to stop, and, picking up the nosebag, ran after the van. Pulling up his horse, he leaned down to take the bag, and then asked where I was going.

'To Hazleton,' I answered, as usual.

'That is about seventeen miles,' he said.

'The worst of it is,' I continued, 'my dog has cut his foot and can't walk.'

'Like a lift, doggie?' asked the fat driver.

'We should most awfully!' I exclaimed, eagerly.

'Well, now, listen to me,' was the answer. 'My round doesn't take me as far as Hazleton, but I am going to Watcombe, and that's ten miles short. We shall not get there much afore evening, because you see I have to travel a good bit out of the main road, and stop at ever so many places on the way.'

At any rate, the proffered lift would take me within ten miles of Colebrook Park, whereas without such help I did not see how I was to get even so far unless I carried Patch in my arms. Besides, the drive was tempting in itself, the only drawback being that my remaining capital of one and fourpence would have to bear an extra strain, and, in case of more bad weather, it would probably be exhausted before I reached my destination. However, in a very few moments Patch and I were seated on the top of a wooden box full of lemonade bottles, the fat driver whipped up his horse, and we sped gaily along the country road.