"Dick o' the Fens" (continued 7)

A dozen times over Dick felt that he could not keep the secret that troubled him—that he must tell his mother his suspicions and ask her advice; but so sure as he made up his mind to speak, the fear that he might be wrong troubled him, and he forebore.

Then began the whole struggle again, and at last he was nearer than ever to confiding his horrible belief in their neighbour’s treachery, when the doctor suddenly appeared.

Dick rose from where he had been kneeling by his mother’s side, and she started from her seat to grasp the doctor’s hand.

She did not speak, but her eyes asked the one great question of her heart, and then, as the doctor’s hard sour face softened and he smiled, Mrs Winthorpe uttered a piteous sigh and clasped her hands together in thankfulness to Heaven.

“Then he is not very bad, doctor?” cried Dick joyfully.

“Yes, my boy, he is very bad indeed, and dangerously wounded,” replied the doctor; “but, please God, I think I can pull him through.”

“Tell me—tell me!” faltered Mrs Winthorpe piteously.

“It is a painful thing to tell a lady,” said the doctor kindly; “but I will explain. Mrs Winthorpe, he has a terrible wound. The bullet has passed obliquely through his chest; it was just within the skin at the back, and I have successfully extracted it. As far as I can tell there is no important organ injured, but at present I am not quite sure. Still I think I may say he is in no immediate danger.”

Mrs Winthorpe could not trust herself to speak, but she looked her thanks and glided toward the other room.

“Do not speak to him and do not let him speak,” whispered the doctor. “Everything depends upon keeping him perfectly still, so that nature may not be interrupted in doing her portion of the work.”

Mrs Winthorpe bowed her head in acquiescence, and with a promise that he would return later in the day the doctor departed.

Dick found, a short time after, that the news had been carried to the works at the drain, where Mr Marston was busy; and no sooner did that gentleman hear of the state of affairs than he hurried over to offer his sympathy to Mrs Winthorpe and Dick.

“I little thought that your father was to be a victim,” he said to the latter as soon as they were alone. “I have been trying my hand to fix the guilt upon somebody, but so far I have failed. Come, Dick, you and I have not been very good friends lately, and I must confess that I have been disposed to think you knew something about these outrages.”

“Yes, I knew you suspected me, Mr Marston.”

“Not suspected you, but that you knew something about them; but I beg your pardon: I am sorry I ever thought such things; and I am sure you will forgive me, for indeed I do not think you know anything of the kind now.”

Dick quite started as he gazed in Mr Marston’s face, so strangely that the engineer wondered, and then felt chilled once more and stood without speaking.

Mr Marston took a step up and down for a few moments and then turned to Dick again.

“Look here, my lad,” he said. “I don’t like for there to be anything between us. I want to be friends with you, for I like you, Richard Winthorpe; but you keep on making yourself appear so guilty that you repel me. Speak to me, Dick, and say out downright, like a man, that you know nothing about this last affair.”

Dick looked at him wildly, but remained silent.

“Come!” said Mr Marston sternly, and he fixed the lad with his eye; “there has been a dastardly outrage committed and your father nearly murdered. Tell me plainly whether you know whose hand fired the shot.”

No answer.

“Dick, my good lad, I tell you once more that I do not suspect you—only that you know who was the guilty party.”

Still no answer.

“It is your duty to speak, boy,” cried Mr Marston angrily. “You are not afraid to speak out?”

“I—I don’t know,” said Dick.

“Then you confess that you do know who fired at your father?”

“I did not confess,” said Dick slowly. “I cannot say. I only think I know.”

“Then who was it?”

No answer.

“Dick, I command you to speak,” cried Mr Marston, catching his arm and holding him tightly.

“I don’t know,” said Dick.

“You do know, cried Mr Marston angrily, and I will have an answer. No man’s life is safe, and these proceedings must be stopped.”

For answer Dick wrested himself free.

“I don’t know for certain,” he said determinedly, “and I’m not going to say who it is I suspect, when I may be wrong.”

“But if the person suspected is innocent, he can very well prove it. Ah, here is Tom Tallington! Come, Tom, my lad, you can help me here with your old companion.”

“No,” cried Dick angrily, “don’t ask him.”

“I shall ask him,” said Mr Marston firmly. “Look here, Tom; our friend Dick here either knows or suspects who it was that fired that shot; and if he knows that, he can tell who fired the other shots, and perhaps did all the other mischief.”

“Do you know, Dick?” cried Tom excitedly.

“I don’t know for certain, I only suspect,” said Dick sadly.

“And I want him to speak out, my lad, while he persists in trying to hide it.”

“He won’t,” said Tom. “He thinks it is being a bit of a coward to tell tales; but he knows it is right to tell, don’t you, Dick?”

“No,” said the latter sternly.

“You do, now,” said Tom. “Come, I say, let’s know who it was. Here, shall I call father?”

“No, no,” cried Dick excitedly, “and I won’t say a word. I cannot. It is impossible.”

“You are a strange lad, Dick Winthorpe,” said the engineer, looking at them curiously.

“Oh, but he will speak, Mr Marston! I can get him to,” cried Tom. “Come, Dick, say who it was.”

Dick stared at him wildly, for there was something so horrible to him in this boy trying now to make him state what would result in his father’s imprisonment and death, that Tom seemed for the moment in his eyes quite an unnatural young monster at whose presence he was ready to shudder.

“How can you be so obstinate!” cried Tom. “You shall tell. Who was it?”

Dick turned from him in horror, and would have hurried away, but Mr Marston caught his arm.

“Stop a moment, Dick Winthorpe,” he said. “I must have a few words with you before we part. It is plain enough that all these outrages are directed against the persons who are connected with the drainage scheme, and that their lives are in danger. Now I am one of these persons, and to gratify the petty revenge of a set of ignorant prejudiced people who cannot see the good of the work upon which we are engaged, I decline to have myself made a target. I ask you, then, who this was. Will you speak?”

Dick shook his head.

“Well, then, I am afraid you will be forced to speak. I consider it to be my duty to have these outrages investigated, and to do this I shall write up to town. The man or men who will be sent down will be of a different class to the unfortunate constable who was watching here. Now, come, why not speak?”

“Mr Marston!” cried Dick hoarsely.

“Yes! Ah, that is better! Now, come, Dick; we began by being friends. Let us be greater friends than ever, as we shall be, I am sure.”

“No, no,” cried Dick passionately. “I want to be good friends, but I cannot speak to you. I don’t know anything for certain, I only suspect.”

“Then whom do you suspect?”

“Yes; who is it?” cried Tom angrily.

“Hold your tongue!” said Dick so fiercely that Tom shrank away.

“I say you shall speak out,” retorted the lad, recovering himself.

“For your father’s sake speak out, my lad,” said Mr Marston.

Dick shook his head and turned away, to go back into the wheelwright’s cottage, where, suffering from a pain and anguish of mind to which he had before been a stranger, he sought refuge at his mother’s side, and shared her toil of watching his father as he lay there between life and death.

Chapter Twenty One.

Trouble Grows.

The next fortnight was passed in a state of misery, which made Dick Winthorpe feel as if he had ceased to be a boy, and had suddenly become a grown-up man.

He wanted to do what was right. He wished for the man who had shot his father in this cowardly way to be brought to justice; but he was not sure that Farmer Tallington was the guilty man, and he shrank from denouncing the parent of his companion from childhood, and his father’s old friend.

Mr Marston came over again and tried him sorely. But the more Dick Winthorpe thought, the more he grew determined that he would not speak unless he felt quite sure.

It was one day at the end of the fortnight that Mr Marston tried him again, and Dick told him that his father would soon be able to speak for himself, and till then he would not say a word.

Mr Marston left him angrily, feeling bitterly annoyed with the lad, but, in spite of himself, admiring his firmness.

Dick stood in the road gazing after him sadly, and was about to retrace his steps to the old house, to which his father had been carefully borne, when, happening to glance in the direction of the track leading to the town, he caught sight of Tom coming along slowly.

Dick turned sullenly away, but Tom ran before him.

“Stop a minute,” he cried; “let you and me have a talk. I don’t want to be bad friends, Dick.”

“Neither do I,” said the latter sadly.

“But you keep trying to be.”

“No, I do not. You try to make me angry with you every time we meet.”

“That’s not true. I want to have you do your duty and tell all you know. Father says you ought, as you know who it was.”

“Have you told your father, then?”

“Yes, I told him to-day, and he said you ought to do your duty and speak.”

“Your father said that?”

“Yes: and why don’t you—like a man.”

Dick’s brow grew all corrugated as if Black Care were sitting upon the roof of his head and squeezing the skin down into wrinkles.

“Come, speak out, and don’t be such a miserable coward. Father says you don’t speak because you are afraid that whoever did it may shoot you.”

Dick’s brow grew more puckered than ever.

“Now, then, let you and me go over and see Mr Marston and tell him everything at once.”

Dick looked at the speaker with a feeling of anger against him for his obstinate perseverance that was almost vicious.

“Now, are you coming?”

“No, I am not.”

“Then I’ve done with you,” cried Tom angrily. “Father says that a lad who knows who attacked his parent in that way, and will not speak out, is a coward and a cur, and that’s what you are, Dick Winthorpe.”

“Tom Tallington,” cried Dick, with his eyes flashing, “you are a fool.”

“Say that again,” said Tom menacingly.

“You are a fool and an idiot, and not worth speaking to again.”

Whack!

That is the nearest way of spelling the back-handed blow which Tom Tallington delivered in his old school-fellow’s face, while the straightforward blow which was the result of Dick Winthorpe’s fist darting out to the full stretch of his arm sounded like an echo; and the next moment Tom was lying upon the ground.

There was no cowardice in Tom Tallington’s nature. Springing up he made at Dick, and the former friends were directly after engaged in delivering furious blows, whose result must have been rather serious for both; but before they had had time to do much mischief, each of the lads was gripped on the shoulder by a giant hand, and they were forced apart, and held beyond striking distance quivering with rage, and each seeing nothing but the adversary at whom he longed to get.

“Hey, lads, and I thowt you two was such friends!” cried the herald of peace, who had sung truce in so forcible and convincing a way.

“Let go, Hicky! He struck me.”

“Yes; let me get at him,” cried Tom. “He knocked me down.”

“And I’ll do it again a dozen times,” panted Dick. “Let go, Hicky, I tell you!”

“Nay, nay, nay, lads, I wean’t let go, and you sha’n’t neither of you fight any more. I’m ashamed of you, Mester Dick, with your poor father lying theer ’most dead, and the missus a-nigh wherritted to death wi’ trouble.”

“But he struck me,” panted Dick.

“And I’ll do it again,” cried Tom.

“If you do, young Tom Tallington, I’ll just pick you up by the scruff and the breeches and pitch you into the mere, to get out as you may; so now then.”

Tom uttered a low growl which was more like that of a dog than a human being; and after an ineffectual attempt to get at Dick, he dragged himself away to kneel down at the first clear pool to bathe his bleeding nose.

“Theer, now, I’ll let you go,” said Hickathrift, “and I’m straänge and glad I was i’ time to stop you. Think o’ you two mates falling out and fighting like a couple o’ dogs! Why, I should as soon hev expected to see me and my missus fight. Mester Dick, I’m ’bout ’shamed o’ yow.”

“I’m ashamed of myself, Hicky, and I feel as if I was never going to be happy again,” cried Dick.

“Nay, nay, lad, don’t talk like that,” said the big wheelwright. “Why, doctor says he’s sewer that he can bring squire reight again, and what more do you want?”

“To see the man punished who shot him, Hicky,” cried Dick passionately.

“Ay, I’d like to see that, or hev the punishing of him,” said Hickathrift, stretching out a great fist. “It’s one o’ they big shacks (idle scoundrels, from Irish shaughraun) yonder up at the dree-ern. I’m going to find him out yet, and when I do— Theer, go and wesh thy faäce.”

Dick was going sadly away when a word from Hickathrift arrested him; and turning, it was to see that the big fellow was looking at him reproachfully, and holding out a hand for him to grasp.

“Ay, that’s better, lad,” said the wheelwright smiling. “Good-bye, lad, and don’t feight again!”

The result of this encounter was that Dick found himself without a companion, and he went day by day bitterly about thinking how hard it was that he should be suspected and ill-treated for trying to spare Tom the agony of having his father denounced and dragged off to jail.

Constables came and made investigations in the loose way of the time; but they discovered nothing, and after a while they departed to do duty elsewhere; but only to come back at the end of a week to re-investigate the state of affairs, for a large low building occupied by about twenty of the drainers was, one windy night, set on fire, and its drowsy occupants had a narrow escape from death.

But there was no discovery made, the constables setting it down to accident, saying that the men must have been smoking; and once more the fen was left to its own resources.

Mr Winthorpe grew rapidly better after the first fortnight, and Dick watched his convalescence with no little anxiety, for he expected to hear him accuse Farmer Tallington of being his attempted murderer. But Dick had no cause for fear. The squire told Mr Marston that he had seen a light on the mere, and dreading that it might mean an attempt to burn down some barn, he had gone out to watch, and he had just made out the shape of a punt on the water when he saw a flash, felt the shock, and fell helpless and insensible among the reeds.

This was as near an account as he could give of the affair, for the injury seemed to have confused him, and he knew little of what had taken place before, nothing of what had since occurred.

“But your life has been spared, Mr Winthorpe,” said Marston; “and some day I hope we shall know that your assailant and mine has received his due.”

“Ay,” said the squire; “we must find him out, for fear he should spoil our plans, for we are not beaten yet.”

“Beaten! no, squire,” said the engineer; “we are getting on faster than ever, and the success of the project is assured.”

Chapter Twenty Two.

After a Space.

The time rolled on. The drain-making progressed, and for a while there was no further trouble. Mr Winthorpe improved in health, but always seemed to avoid any allusion to the outrage; and after the constables had been a few times and found out nothing, and the magistrates of the neighbourhood had held consultation, the trouble once more dropped.

Dick Winthorpe always lived in apprehension of being examined, and pressed to tell all he knew, but his father never said a word, to his great relief, and the matter died out.

“I can’t take any steps about it,” Dick said to himself, “if my father doesn’t;” and there were times when he longed to speak, others when he wished that he could forget everything about the past.

“Yow two med it up yet?” Hickathrift used to ask every time he saw Dick; but the answer was always the same— “No.”

“Ah, well, you will some day, my lad. It arn’t good for boys to make quarrels last.”

There was no more warm friendship with Mr Marston, who, whenever he came over to the Toft, was studiously polite to Dick, treating him as if he were not one whose friendship was worth cultivating, to the lad’s great disgust, though he was too proud to show it; and the result was that Dick’s life at the Toft grew very lonely, and he was driven to seek the companionship of John Warren and his rabbits, and of Dave with his boat, gun, and fishing-tackle.

Then all at once there was a change. The outrages, which had ceased for a time, broke out again furiously; and all through the winter there were fires here and there, the very fact of a person, whether farmer or labourer, seeming to favour the making of the drain, being enough to make him receive an unwelcome visit from the party or parties who opposed the scheme.

So bad did matters grow that at last people armed and prepared themselves for the struggle which was daily growing more desperate; and at the same time a feeling of suspicion increased so strongly that throughout the fen every man looked upon his neighbour as an enemy.

But still the drain grew steadily in spite of the fact that Mr Marston had been shot at twice again, and never went anywhere now without a brace of pistols in his pocket.

One bright wintry morning John Warren came in with a long tale of woe, and his arm in a sling.

It was the old story. He had been out with his gun to try and get a wild-goose which he had marked down, when, just in the dusk, about half-past four, he was suddenly startled by a shot, and received the contents of a gun in his arm.

“But you’d got a gun,” said Hickathrift, who was listening with Dick, while Tom Tallington, who had business at the wheelwright’s that morning, stood hearing all. “Why didst na let him hev it again?”

“What’s the use o’ shuting at a sperrit?” grumbled John Warren. “’Sides, I couldn’t see him.”

“Tchah! it warn’t a sperrit,” said Hickathrift contemptuously.

“Well, I don’t know so much about that,” grumbled John Warren. “If it weern’t a sperrit what was to mak my little dog, Snig, creep down in the bottom of the boat and howl? Yow mark my words: it’s sperrits, that’s what it is; and it’s because o’ that theer dreern; but they needn’t shute at me, for I don’t want dreern made.”

“Going over to town to see the doctor, John?” said Dick.

“Nay, lad, not I. It’s only a hole in my arm. There arn’t nowt the matter wi’ me. I’ve tied it oop wi’ some wet ’bacco, and it’ll all grow oop again, same as a cooten finger do.”

“But someone ought to see it.”

“Well, someun has sin it. I showed it to owd Dave, and he said it weer all right. Tchah! what’s the good o’ doctors? Did they cure my ager?”

“Well, go up and ask mother to give you some clean linen rag for it.”

“Ay,” said the rabbit-trapper with a grim smile, “I’ll do that.”

So John Warren went to the Toft, obtained the clean linen rag, but refused to have his wound dressed, and went off again; while the squire knit his brow when he returned soon after, and, taking Dick with him, poled across in the punt to see Dave and make him promise to keep a sharp look-out.

A week passed away, and the frost had come in so keenly that the ice promised to bear, and consequent upon this Dick was at the wheelwright’s one evening superintending the finishing up of his pattens, as they called their skates. Hickathrift had ground the blades until they were perfectly sharp at the edges, and had made a new pair of ashen soles for them, into which he had just finished fitting the steel.

“There, Mester Dick,” said the bluff fellow with a grin; “that’s a pair o’ pattens as you ought ’most to fly in. Going out in the morning?”

“Yes, Hicky, I shall go directly after breakfast.”

“Ay, she’ll bear splendid to-morrow, and the ice is as hard and black as it can be. Hello, who’s this? Haw-haw! I thowt you’d want yours done,” he added, as he heard steps coming over the frozen ground, and the jingle of skates knocking together. “It’s young Tom Tallington, Mester Dick. Come, you two ought to mak friends now, and go and hev a good skate to-morrow.”

“I’m never going to be friends with Tom Tallington again,” said Dick sternly; but he sighed as he said it.

Just then Tom rushed into the workshop. “Here,” he cried, “Dick Winthorpe, come along. I’ve been to the house.”

“What do you want?” said Dick coldly.

“What do I want! Why, they don’t know!” cried Tom. “Look here!”

He caught Dick by the collar, dragged him to the door, and pointed.

“Fire!” he cried.

“Hey!” cried the wheelwright. “Fire! So it is. But there’s no house or stack out theer.”

“Only old Dave’s. Father said he thought it must be his place. Come on, Dick.”

“But how are we to get there?” cried Dick, forgetting the feud in the excitement.

“How are we to get there! Why, skate.”

“Will it be strong enough, Hicky?”

“Mebbe for you, lads; but it wouldn’t bear me, and I couldn’t get along the boat nor yet a sled.”

Tom had already seated himself, and was putting on his skates, while Dick immediately began to follow suit, with the result that in five minutes both were ready and all past troubles forgotten. The memory of the terrible night when his father was shot did come for a moment to Dick, but the trouble had grown dull, and the excitement of Dave’s place being on fire carried everything before it.

“Poor owd Dave!” said Hickathrift, as he gazed over the mere at the glow in the black frosty night. “He’s got off so far. Mebbe it’ll be my turn next. Come back and tell me, lads.”

“Yes, yes,” they shouted, as they walked clumsily to the ice edge, Dick first, and as he glided on there was an ominous ringing crack which seemed to run right out with a continuous splitting noise.

“Will it bear, Hicky?”

“Ay, she’ll bear you, lad, only keep well out, and away from the reeds.”

Tom dashed on, and as the wheelwright stood with the group of labourers, who were just beginning to comprehend the new alarm, the two lads went off stroke for stroke over the ringing ice, which cracked now and again but did not yield, save to undulate beneath them, as they kept gathering speed and glided away.

Far ahead there was the ruddy glow, showing like a golden patch upon the dark sky, which overhead was almost black, and glittering with the brilliant stars. The ice gleamed, little puffs of white powder rose at every stroke of the skates, and on and on they went, gathering speed till they were gliding over the ringing metallic surface like arrows from a bow, while as soon as the first timidity had passed away they began to feel their feet, and in a few minutes were skating nearly as well as when the ice broke up last.

The feud was forgotten, and it had lasted long enough. With a buoyant feeling of excitement, and a sensation of joy increased by the brisk beat of the freezing wind upon their cheeks, the two lads joined hands in a firm grip, kept time together, and sped on as Lincoln and Cambridge boys alone can speed over the ice.

Not that they are more clever with their legs than the boys of other counties; but from the fact that skating has always been a favourite pastime with them, and that when others were longing for a bit of bearing ice, and getting it sometimes in a crowded place, the marsh and fen lads had miles of clear bright surface, over which they could career as a swallow flies.

Away and away over the open ice, unmarked before by skate-iron and looking black as hardened unpolished steel, stroke for stroke, stroke for stroke, the wind whistling by them, and the ominous cracking forgotten as they dashed on past reed-bed and bog-clump, keeping to the open water where they had so often been by punt.

“His reed-stack must be on fire,” panted Dick as they dashed on.

“Ay, and his peat-stack and cottage too,” shouted Tom so as to be heard above the ringing of their skates. “Oh, Dick, if I only knew who it was did these things I think I could kill him!”

Dick was silent for a minute, for his companion’s words jarred upon him.

“How much farther is it?” he said at last.

“Good mile and a half,” said Tom; “but it’s fine going. I say, look at the golden smoke. It must be at Dave’s, eh?”

“Yes, it’s there, sure enough. Oh, Tom, suppose some one were to burn down the duck ’coy!”

“It wouldn’t burn so as to do much harm. Look, there goes a flock of plovers.”

They could just catch the gleam of the wings in the dark night, as the great flock, evidently startled by the strange glare, swept by.

“I say!” cried Dick, as they dashed on as rapidly as the birds themselves.

“What is it?”

“Suppose poor Dave—”

“Oh, don’t think things like that!” cried Tom with a shudder. “He’d be clever enough to get out. Come along. Look at the sparks.”

What Tom called sparks were glowing flakes of fire which floated on, glittering against the black sky, and so furiously was the fire burning that it seemed as if something far more than the hut and stacks of the decoy-man must be ablaze.

And now they had to curve off some distance to the right, for they came upon an embayment of the mere, so well sheltered from the icy blast that to have persevered in skating over the very thin ice must have meant serious accident to one, probably to both.

For a long time past the ice had been blushing, as it were, with the warm glow from the sky; but now, as they drew nearer and passed a little copse of willows, they glided full into the view of the burning hut and stacks, and found that a bed of dry reeds was burning too. At this point of their journey the cold black ice was lit up, and as they advanced it seemed as if they were about to skim over red-hot glowing steel.

“Now, then,” cried Dick excitedly, “a rush—as fast as we can go!”

But they could get on at no greater speed, and rather slackened than increased as they drew near to the fire; while a feeling of thankfulness came over both as all at once they were aware of the fact that a tall thin figure was standing apparently with its back to them staring at the glowing fire, against which it stood out like a black silhouette.

“Dave, ho!” shouted Dick.

The figure turned slowly, and one hand was raised as if to shade the eyes.

“Dave, ho!” shouted Tom.

“Ay, ay!” shouted back the man; and the next minute the boys glided up to the firm earth and leaped ashore, as their old fishing and trapping friend came slowly to meet them.

“How was it, Dave?” cried Dick.

“Was it an accident?” cried Tom.

“Accident! Just such an accident as folks hev as shoves a burning candle in a corn stack. Just you two slither out yonder straight away, and see if you can see anyone.”

“But there can’t be anyone,” said Dick, looking in the direction indicated.

“Ice wouldn’t bear, and they couldn’t come in a punt.”

“Nay, they coom i’ pattens,” said Dave sharply. “I joost caught a blink of ’em as they went off, and I let ’em hev the whole charge o’ my goon.”

“A bullet?” said Tom huskily.

“Nay, lad; swan-shot. I’d been out after the wild-geese at the end of the bit o’ reed-bed here, when I see a light wheer there couldn’t be no light, and I roon back and see what they’d done, and let fly at ’em.”

“And hit them, Dave?” said Dick.

“Nay, lad, I can’t say. I fired and I heered a squeal. Ice wouldn’t bear for me to go and see.”

“Come along, Tom,” cried Dick; and they skated away once more, to curve here and there in all directions, till a hail from the island took them back.

“Can’t you find ’em?”

“No.”

“Then they must have got away; but they’ve took some swan-shot wi’ ’em, whoever they be.”

“But, Dave, were there two?”

“Don’t know, lad. I only see one, and fired sharp. Look ye here,” he continued, pointing to the glowing remains of his hut, “I nivver made no dreerns. They might have left me alone. Now they’ll come back some day and pay me back for that shot. All comes o’ your father makkin dreerns, Mester Dick, just as if we weren’t reight before.”

“It’s very, very sad, Dave.”

“Ay, bairn, and I feel sadly. Theer’s a whole pound o’ powder gone, and if I’d happened to be happed up i’ my bed instead of out after they geese, I should hev gone wi’ it, or been bont to dead. Why did they want to go meddling wi’ me?”

“They’ve been meddling with every one, Dave,” said Tom.

“’Cept you two,” grumbled Dave. “Theer was my sheepskin coat and a pair o’ leggin’s and my new boots.”

“Were the nets there, Dave?” asked Dick.

“Course they weer. Look, dessay that’s them burning now. All my shot too melted down, and my tatoes, and everything I have.”

“Where was the dog?”

“Over at John Warren’s. Wasn’t well. Nice sort o’ neighbour he is to stop away!”

“But he couldn’t come, Dave,” said Tom in remonstrant tones. “The ice wouldn’t bear anyone but us boys.”

“Why, I’d ha’ swimmed to him,” growled Dave, “if his place had been afire.”

“No you wouldn’t, Dave. You couldn’t when it’s frozen. I say, couldn’t we put anything out?”

“Nay, lads. It must bon right away, and then there’ll be a clear place to build again.”

“But,” cried Dick, “a bucket or two, and we could do a good deal.”

“Boocket’s bont,” said Dave sadly, “and everything else. They might hev left me alone, for I hates the dreerns.”

The trio stood watching the fire, which was rapidly going down now for want of something to burn; but as they stood near, their faces scorched, while the cold wind drawn by the rising heat cut by their ears and threatened to stiffen their backs. The reeds and young trees which had been burning were now smoking feebly, and the only place which made any show was the peat-stack, which glowed warmly and kept crumbling down in cream-coloured ash. But when a fire begins to sink it ceases to be exciting, and as the two lads stood there upon their skates, with their faces burning, the tightness of their straps stopped the circulation, and their feet grew cold.

“I say, Dave,” said Dick just then, “what’s to be done?”

“Build ’em up again. I builded this, and I can build another, lad.”

“Yes, but I mean about you. What’s to be done? The ice won’t bear you, and you’ve got no shelter.”

The rough fellow shook his head.

“Nay, but it wean’t rain, and I can sit close to the fire and keep mysen warm.”

“But you ought to have some cover.”

“Ay, I ought to hev some cover, and I’ll get my punt ashore, and turn her up, and sit under her.”

“And no wraps! Look here, I shall be warm enough skating back. I’ll lend you my coat.”

“Nay, nay, lad,” said Dave, with his eyes twinkling, and his face looking less grim. “Keep on thy coat, lad, I wean’t hev it. Thankye, though, all the same, and thou shalt hev a good bit o’ sport for that, Mester Dick. But, theer, you two had best go back.”

“But we don’t like leaving you,” said Tom.

“Thankye, lads, thankye. Bud nivver yow mind about me. Look at the times I’ve wetched all night in my poont for the wild-geese, and wi’out a fire, eh? Yow both get back home. Wouldn’t bear me to walk wi’ ye to sleep in one of the barns at the Toft, would it?”

“I don’t think it would, Dave.”

“Nay, it wouldn’t, lad; and I don’t want to get wet, so off with you.”

The boys hesitated; but Dave was determined.

“Here, give me a hand wi’ my poont,” he said; and going to where it was moored, he took hold of the boat, drew it close in, and then, he on one side, the two lads on the other, they ran it right up ashore, and close to the glowing peat-stack, where, with a good deal of laughter at their clumsiness in skates ashore, the punt was turned over, and Dave propped one side up with a couple of short pieces of wood.

“Theer,” he said. “Looks like setting a trap to ketch a big bird. I’m the big bird, and I shall be warm enew faäcing the fire. When it goes out I can tak’ away the sticks and let the poont down and go to sleep. Come and see me again, lads, and bring me a moothful o’ something. Mebbe the ice’ll bear to-morrow.”

“We’ll come, Dave, never fear,” said Dick, taking out his knife as he reached the ice, and cleaning the mud off his skates, for the ground was soft near the fire, though hard as iron everywhere else.

“I don’t fear, lads,” said Dave smiling, and letting off his watchman-rattle laugh. “It’s a bad job, but not so bad as Farmer Tallington’s stables burning, or squire’s beasts heving theer legs cooten. I’ll soon get oop another house when I’ve been and seen neighbour Hickathrift for some wood. Now, then, off you go, and see who’s best man over the ice.”

“One moment, Dave,” cried Dick, checking himself in the act of starting. “It was easy enough to come here with the fire to guide us, but we must know which way to go back.”

“Ay, to be sure, lad,” cried Dave eagerly. “You mak’ straight for yon star and yow’ll be right. That star’s reight over the Toft. Now, then—off!”

There was a momentary hesitation, and then the boys struck the ice almost at the same time. There was a ringing hissing sound, mingled with a peculiar splitting as if the ice were parting from where they started across the mere to the Toft, and then they were going at a rapidly increasing speed straight for home.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The Question.

There are many pleasures in life, and plenty of people to sing the praises of the sport most to their taste; but it is doubtful whether there is any manly pursuit which gives so much satisfaction to an adept in the art as skating.

I don’t mean skating upon the ornamental water of a park, elbowed here, run against there, crowded into a narrow limit, and abortively trying to cut figures upon a few square feet of dirty, trampled ice, full of holes, dotted with stones thrown on by mischievous urchins to try whether it will bear, and being so much unlike ice that it is hardly to be distinguished from the trampled banks; but skating over miles of clear black crystal, on open water, with the stars twinkling above like diamonds, the air perfectly still around, but roaring far on high, as Jack Frost and his satellites go hurrying on to mow down vegetation and fetter streams; when there is so much vitality in the air you breathe that fatigue is hardly felt, and when, though the glass registers so many degrees of frost, your pulses beat, your cheeks glow, and a faint dew upon your forehead beneath your cap tells you that you are thoroughly warm. How the blood dances through the veins! How the eyes sparkle! How tense is every nerve! How strong each muscle! The ice looks like steel. Your skates are steel, and your legs feel the same as stroke, whish! stroke, whish! stroke! stroke! stroke! stroke! away you go, gathering power, velocity, confidence, delight, at the unwonted exercise, till you feel as if you could go on for ever, and begin wishing that the whole world was ice, and human beings had been born with skates to their toes instead of nails.

Some such feelings as these pervaded the breasts of Dick Winthorpe and Tom Tallington as they glided along homeward on that night. Every now and then there was a sharp report, and a hissing splitting sound. Then another and another, for the ice was really too thin to bear them properly, and it undulated beneath their weight like the soft swell of the Atlantic in a calm.

“Sha’n’t go through, shall we?” said Tom, as there was a crack as loud as a pistol-shot.

“We should if we stopped,” said Dick. “Keep on and we shall be on fresh ice before it breaks.”

And so it seemed. Crack! crack! crack! But at every report and its following splitting the lads redoubled their exertions, and skimmed at a tremendous rate over the treacherous surface.

At times it was quite startling; but they were growing so inured to the peril that they laughed loudly—a joyous hearty laugh—which rang out to the music made by their skates.

They were in the highest of glee, for though they did not revert to it in words, each boy kept thinking of the past quarrel, and rejoicing at its end, while he looked forward to days of enjoyment in companionship such as had gone before.

The star—one of those in the Great Bear—did them good stead, for it was easy to follow; and saving that they were always within an ace of going through, they skimmed on in safety.

From time to time they glanced back to see the glare of the fire dying out to such an extent that when they were well in sight of the light at the landing-place which they felt convinced Hickathrift was showing, the last sign had died out, and just then a loud crack made them forget it.

“Don’t seem to be freezing so hard, does it?” said Tom.

“Oh, yes, I think so; only we must be going over ice we cracked before. Now, then, let’s put on all the speed we can, and go right in to where the light is with a rush.”

Tom answered to his companion’s call by taking stroke for stroke, and away they went quicker than ever. The ice bent and swayed and cracked, and literally hissed as they sped on, with the white powder flying as it was struck off. The metallic ring sounded louder, and the splitting more intense; but still they passed on in safety till they were within one hundred yards of where the wheelwright was waiting, when there was a sharp report as loud as that of a gun, a crack, and there were no skaters on the surface, only a quantity of broken ice in so much black water, and directly after a loud yell rose from the shore.

“Now, Jacob, out with it!” came in stentorian tones; and then there was a cracking sound, a great deal of splashing, and the punt was partly slid along the ice, partly used to break it up, by the two men who waded by its side, and finally got it right upon the ice and thrust along till it was close to the place where the lads had broken in.

“Now, then, where are you?” shouted Hickathrift as he peered around.

“Here we are, all right, only so precious cold!” cried Dick. “It isn’t very deep here; only up to your chest.”

“It’s up to my chin,” cried Tom with a shiver, “and I’m holding on by the ice.”

Hickathrift did not hesitate, but waded towards him, breaking opposing sheets of ice with a thump of his fist, and at last, with some little difficulty, all got ashore.

“Theer, both of you, run for it to the Toft and get to bed. The missus knows what to do better than I can tell her. Nivver mind your pattens.”

If they had stopped to get them off it would have been a terribly long job with their rapidly-numbing hands, so they did not pause, but scuffled over the ground in the best way they could to the house, where hot beds and a peculiar decoction Mrs Winthorpe prepared had a double property, for it sent them into a perspiration and off to sleep, one of the labourers bearing the news to Grimsey that the heir to the house of Tallington would not return that night, consequent upon having become “straänge and wet.”

The next morning the boys came down to breakfast none the worse for their wetting, to find that Mr Marston was already there looking very serious.

He had been told of the burning-out of poor Dave, and he had other news of his own, that three of the cottages had been fired during the past night.

“And the peculiar part of the business is,” said Mr Marston, “that big Bargle saw the person who fired the last of the houses.”

The engineer looked at Dick as he spoke.

“Why didn’t he catch him then?” said Dick sharply, for Mr Marston’s look annoyed him; “he is big enough.”

“Don’t speak pertly, Dick!” said his father sternly.

“It was because he is so big that he did not catch him, Richard Winthorpe,” said the engineer coldly. “The ice bore the person who fired the places, because he was skating.”

“Skating!” cried Dick, flushing up.

“Yes, skating!” said Mr Marston. “Bargle says that the man hobbled over the ground in his skates, but as soon as he reached the ice he went off like a bird. The ice cracked and splintered, but it seemed to bear him, and in less than a minute he was out of sight, but Bargle could hear him for a long time.”

“Well, it wasn’t me, Mr Marston,” said Tom, laughing. “I was skating along with Dick, but it was neither of us. We went to another fire.”

“Breakfast is getting cold,” said Mrs Winthorpe, who looked troubled, for the squire was frowning, and Dick turning pale and red by turns.

“Look here,” said the squire suddenly; “I cannot, and I will not, have unpleasantness of this kind in my house. I must speak plainly, Marston. You suspect my boy of firing your men’s huts last night?”

“I am very sorry, Mr Winthorpe, and I do it unwillingly, but appearances are very much against him.”

“They are,” said the squire gravely.

“I like Dick; I always did like Dick,” said the engineer; “and it seems to me horrible to have to suspect such a lad as he is; but put yourself in my place, Mr Winthorpe. Can you be surprised?”

“I am not surprised, Mr Marston,” said Mrs Winthorpe, rising and going to her son’s side. “Dick was out last night skating with Tom here over the thin ice, and of course it must have been a very light person to cross last night in skates; but you are mistaken. My boy would not commit such a cowardly crime.”

The moment before, Dick, who was half-stunned by the accusation, and ready to give up in despair, leaped to his feet and flung his arms about his mother’s waist. His eyes flashed and the colour flushed right up into his brows as he kissed her passionately again and again.

“You are right,” said the squire. “But speak out, Dick. You did not do this dastardly thing?”

“No, father,” said Dick, meeting his eyes boldly. “I couldn’t.”

“There, Marston,” said the squire; “and I will not insult Tom Tallington by accusing him.”

“Oh, no, father! we were together all the time.”

“But I say,” cried Tom, “old Dave said it was a chap in skates who set fire to his place, and he couldn’t follow him over the ice.”

“Yes; I’d forgotten,” cried Dick, “and he shot at him.”

“Then I am wrong once more, Dick,” said Mr Marston. “I beg your pardon. Will you forgive me?”

“Of course I will, Mr Marston,” said Dick huskily, as he took the extended hand; “but I don’t think you ought to be so ready to think ill of me.”

“And I say the same, Mr Marston,” said Mrs Winthorpe. “My boy is wilful, and he may have been a bit mischievous, but he could not be guilty of such cowardly tricks as these.”

“No,” said Tom, with his mouth full of pork-pie; “of course he could not. Dick isn’t a coward!”

“I humbly apologise, Mrs Winthorpe,” said Marston, smiling, “and you must forgive me. A man who has been shot at has his temper spoiled.”

“Say no more, Marston, my lad,” said the squire warmly; “we all forgive you, and—breakfast waits.”

The subject was hurriedly changed, Dick being after all able to make a good meal, during which he thought of the past, and of how glad he was to be friends with Tom Tallington again; and then, as he had his second help of pie to Tom’s third, it seemed to him that the same person must be guilty of all these outrages, and if so it could not by any possibility be Farmer Tallington, for he never skated, and even if he could, he weighed at least sixteen stone, and the ice had broken under the weight of Tom’s seven or eight.

“We shall find him yet, Marston; never fear,” said the squire; “and when we do—well, I shall be sorry for the man.”

“Why?” said Mrs Winthorpe.

“Because,” said the squire gravely, “I have been so near death myself that—there, this is not a pleasant subject to talk about. We will wait.”

Chapter Twenty Four.

Preparing for Action.

Hickathrift shook his head; Mrs Hickathrift screwed up her lips, shut her eyes, and shuddered; and the former doubled up his hard fist and shook it in the air, as if he were going to hit nothing, as he gave out his opinion—this being also the opinion of all the labouring people near.

“Ay, yow may laugh, Mester Dick, but they’ll nivver find out nowt. It’s sperrits, that’s what it is—sperrits of the owd fen, them as makes the ager, and sends will-o’-the-wisps to lead folkses into the bog. They don’t like the drain being med, and they shutes and bons, and does all they can to stop it.”

“You’re a great goose, Hicky,” said Dick sharply. “Who ever heard of a ghost—”

“I didn’t say ghost, my lad. I said sperrits!”

“Well, they’re all the same.”

“Nay, nay, ghosts is ghosts, and sperrits is sperrits.”

“Well, then, who ever heard of a spirit going out skating with a lantern, or poling about with a punt, or shooting people, or blowing up sluice-gates, or cutting beasts’ legs, or setting fire to their houses? Did you?”

“I nivver did till now, Mester Dick.”

“It’s all nonsense about spirits; isn’t it, Tom?”

“Of course it is,” was the reply. “We’re going to catch the spirit some day, and we’ll bring him here.”

“Ay, do,” said Hickathrift, nodding his head softly. “Well, I’m glad you two hev made it up.”

“Never mind about that. Has Dave been over?”

“Ay, lad. Soon as the ice went away and he could get his punt along he come to me and asked me to get him some wood sawn out; and we done it already. Ice is gone and to-morrow I’m going to pole across and help him knock up a frame, and he’ll do the rest hissen.”

The damage was far more severe at the drainage works; but even here the traces of the fire soon disappeared, and fresh huts were run up nearer to where the men were at work.

One thing, however, was noticeable, and that was the action of the squire, the engineer, and Farmer Tallington—the engineer, after hanging away for a time, becoming again more friendly, though Dick never seemed at ease in his presence now.

These three leaders on the north side of the fen held a meeting with dwellers on the west and south, and after long consultation the results were seen in a quiet way which must have been rather startling to wrong-doer? and those who were secretly fighting to maintain the fen undrained.

Tom was the first to begin talking about these precautions as he and Dick started to go down to the drain one morning early in spring, after a long spell of bitter miserable weather, succeeded by a continuance of fierce squalls off the sea.

“I say,” he said, “father’s got such a splendid new pair of pistols.”

“Has he? So has my father,” said Dick staring. “Are yours mounted with brass and with brass pans?”

“Yes, and got lions’ heads on the handles just at the end.”

“Ours are just the same,” said Dick. “I say, Tom, it won’t be very pleasant for the spirits if they come now. Hullo, what does Hicky want?”

The big wheelwright was signalling to them to come, and they turned in to his work-shed.

“Thowt you lads ’d like to see,” he said. “What d’yer think o’ them?”

He pointed to a couple of muskets lying on the bench.

“Are these yours?” said Tom.

“Yes and no, lads. They’re for me and Jacob, and we’ve got orders to be ready at any time to join in and help run down them as does all the mischief; but it’s a sorry business, lads. Powther and shot’s no use. Yow can’t get shut of sperrits that ways. Good goons, aren’t they?”

The pieces were inspected and the boys soon afterwards started.

“I don’t see much use in our going down here,” said Tom, “for if there is anything stupid it’s the cutting of a drain. It’s all alike, just the same as the first bit they cut.”

“Only we don’t have to go so far to see the men at work. I suppose one of these days we shall have Mr Marston setting up huts for the men about the Toft. Hist! look out! What’s that?”

“Whittrick!” said Tom, running in pursuit of the little animal which crossed their path. “There must be rabbits about here.”

“Yes. Do you know what they call whittricks down south?”

“No.”

“Stoats.”

“How stupid!” said Tom after a vain chase after the snaky-looking little creature. “They must be very silly people down south. Do they call them stoats in London?”

“Haven’t got any in London—only rats.”

The engineer greeted the lads warmly and went up to the temporary hut he occupied to fetch his gun, when, in the corner of the room Dick saw something which made him glance at Tom.

“Yes,” said the engineer, who saw the glance; “we’re going to show your fen-men, Master Dick, that we do not mean to be trifled with. I’ve got muskets; and as the law does not help us, we shall help ourselves. So if anyone intends to come shooting us, blowing up our works, or setting fire to our huts, he had better look out for bullets.”

“But you wouldn’t shoot anyone, Mr Marston?” said Tom.

“Indeed but we would, or any two, sir. It’s a case of self-defence. There, Dick, don’t look at me as if I were a bloodthirsty savage. I have got all these muskets down and shown my men how to use them, and I am letting it be known that we are prepared.”

“Seems rather horrible,” said Dick.

“More horrible for your father to be shot, Dick, and for people to be burned in their beds, eh!”

“Ever so much,” cried Tom. “You shoot ’em all, Mr Marston.”

“Precaution is better than cure, Tom,” said the engineer smiling. “Now that we are prepared, you will see that we shall not be interfered with, and my arming the men will save bloodshed instead of causing it.”

“Think so, sir?”

“I am sure of it, my lad. Besides, if I had not done something, my men would not have stayed. Even Bargle said it was getting too warm. He said he was not afraid, but he would not stay. So here we are ready for the worst: self-defence, my lads. And now let’s go and get a few ducks for dinner. They are pretty plentiful, and my men like them as well as I.”

The result was a long walk round the edge of the fen and the bringing back of a fairly miscellaneous bag of wild-fowl, the engineer having become a skilful gunner during his stay in the wild coast land.

Mr Marston was right; the preparations made by him and all the farmers round who had an interest in the draining of the fen had the effect of putting a stop to the outrages. The work went on as the weeks glided by, and spring passed, and summer came to beautify the wild expanse of bog and water. There had been storm and flood, but people had slept in peace, and the troubles of the past were beginning to be forgotten.

There were plenty of fishing and fowling expeditions, visits to the decoy with good results, and journeys to John Warren’s home for the hunting out of rabbits; but life was beginning seriously for the two lads, who found occupation with Mr Marston and began to acquire the rudiments of knowledge necessary for learning to be draining engineers. Sometimes they were making drawings, sometimes overlooking, and at others studying works under their teacher’s guidance.

But it was a pleasant time, for Marston readily broke off work to join them in some expedition.

One day, as they were poling along, Tom gave Dick a queer look, and nodded in the direction of a fir-crowned gravelly island lying about a mile away.

“When’s the Robinson Crusoe business going to begin, Dick?” he said.

Dick laughed, but it was not a merry laugh, for the memory was a painful one, and mingled with recollections of times when everyone was suspicious of him, or seemed to be; and he was fast relapsing into an unhappy morbid state.

“What was the Robinson Crusoe business?” said Marston; and on being told, he laughingly proposed going on.

“Let’s have a look at the place, boys,” he said. “Why shouldn’t we have a summer-house out here to come and stay at sometimes, shooting, fishing, or collecting. We cannot always work.”

The pole was vigorously plied, and at the end of half an hour they had landed, to find the place just as they remembered it to have been the year before. There were the bushes, the heath, and heather in the gravelly soil, and the fir-trees flourishing.

“A capital place!” said the engineer. “I tell you what, boys, we’ll bring Big Bargle over, and a couple of men; the wheelwright shall cut us some posts, rafters, and a door, and we’ll make a great hut, and—”

He stopped short at that point and stared, as they all stood in the depths of the little fir-wood, with the water and reed-beds hidden from sight. For there, just before them, as if raised by magic, was the very building Mr Marston had described, and upon examination they found it very dry and warm, with a bed of heath in one corner.

“Some sportsman has forestalled us,” said the engineer. “One of the farmers, I suppose, from the other side of the fen.”

They came away, with the lads sharing the same feeling of disappointment, for the little island was robbed of all its romance. It was no longer uninhabited, and the temptation to have a hut there was gone.

“Plenty more such places, boys,” said Mr Marston, “so never mind. We’ll hunt one out and make much of it before my drain turns all this waste into fertile fields. Now let’s get back, for I have a lot to chat over with the wheelwright.”

The next morning Hickathrift was beaming, and he came up to the Toft to catch Dick, who was feeding Solomon and avoiding his friendly kicks, while he waited for Tom to go over with him to the works.

“Say, Mester Dick, on’y think of it! Leave that owd ass alone, lad, and listen to me.”

“What is it, Hicky?”

“Why, lad, I’m a man full o’—what do you call that when a chap wants to get on in the world?”

“Ambition, Hicky.”

“That’s it, Mester Dick. I’m full on it, bud I’ve nivver hed a chance. You see I’ve had to mend gates, and owd carts, and put up fences. I did nearly get the job to build a new barn, bud I lost it, and all my life’s been jobs.”

“And what now?” said Dick warmly.

“What now, lad! Why, Mester Marston’s set me to mak three sets o’ small watter gates for sides o’ the dreern, and I’m to hev money in advance for the wood and iron work, and my fortune’s about made.”

“Hooray, Hicky! I am glad,” cried Dick; and Tom, coming up, was initiated into the great new step in advance, and added his congratulations.

“Why, you’re carpenter and joiner to the works now, Hicky!” said Dick, laughing.

“Ay, lad, that’s it, and I don’t fear for nowt.”

It was less than a fortnight after, that Dick lay asleep one night and dreaming of being in a boat on the mere, or one of its many additional pools, when he started into wakefulness with the impression that the house was coming down.

“Eh? What is it?” he cried, as there was a heavy thumping on the wall close to his bed’s head.

“Get up—fire!” came in muffled tones; and bounding out of bed he saw that there was a lurid light on the water, evidently reflected from something burning pretty near at hand, while there was the distant hum of voices, mingled with shrieks and the barking of a dog.

Dick began hurriedly dressing, and threw open the window, to find that the dog was Grip, who was out in the yard barking frantically, as if to alarm the house.

“What is it, father? Where?” cried Dick.

“Don’t know; not here. Labourers’ cottages, I think,” replied the squire, who was still dressing. Then, as a burst of flame seemed to rush up skyward, and a cloud of brilliant sparks floated away, he added, “Dick, my lad, it is poor Hickathrift’s turn now.”

He was quite right, for as they ran the few hundred yards which separated them from the burning place, it was to find that the poor fellow’s house, work-shed, stock of wood, peat-stack, and out-buildings were in a blaze; even his punt, which had been brought up for its annual repair and pitching, blazing furiously.

Hickathrift, Jacob, Mrs Hickathrift, and the farm people were all at work with buckets, which they handed along from the dipping place by the old willows; but at the first glance the squire saw that it was in vain, and that the fire had taken such hold that nothing could be saved. Both he and Dick, however, joined in the efforts, saying nothing but working with all their might, the squire taking Jacob’s place and dipping the water, while the apprentice and Dick helped to pass the full buckets along and the empty back, for they were not enough to form a double line.

For about a quarter of an hour this was kept up, the wheelwright throwing the water where he thought it would do most good; but the flames only roared the louder, and, fanned by a pleasant breeze, fluttered and sent up sparks of orange and gold, till a cask of pitch got well alight, and then the smoke arose in one dense cloud.

It was a glorious sight in spite of its horror, for the wood in the shed and the pile without burned brilliantly, lighting up the mere, gilding the reeds, and spreading a glow around that was at times dazzling.

“Pass it along quick! pass it along!” Jacob kept saying, probably to incite people to work harder; but it was not necessary, for everyone was doing his or her best, when, just as they were toiling their hardest, the wheelwright took a bucket of water, hurled it as far as he could, and then dashed on the empty vessel and turned away.

“No good,” he said bitterly, as he wiped his face. “Fire joost spits at me when I throw in the watter. It must bon down, squire, eh?”

“Yes, my man, nothing could save the place now.”

“And all my same (lard) in a jar—ten pounds good,” murmured Mrs Hickathrift.

“Ay, moother, and my Sunday clothes,” said the wheelwright with a bitter laugh.

“And my best frock.”

“Ay, and my tools, and a bit o’ mooney I’d saved, and all my stoof. Eh, but I’m about ruined, moother, and just when I was going to get on and do the bit o’ work for the dreern folk.”

The fire seemed to leap up suddenly with a great flash as if to enlighten the great fellow’s understanding, but he did not grasp the situation for a few moments, till his wife, as she bemoaned the loss of a paste-board and a flour-tub, suddenly exclaimed:

“It’s them sperrits of the fen as has done it all.”

“Ay, so it be!” roared Hickathrift. “Ay! Hey, bud if I could git one of ’em joost now by scruff of his neck and the seat of his breeches, I’d—I’d—I’d roast him.”

“Then it was no accident, Hickathrift?”

“Yes, squire,” said the man bitterly; “same sort o’ axden as bont Farmer Tallington’s stable and shed. Hah, here he is!” he added, as the farmer came panting up with Tom. “Come to waärm theesen, farmer? It’s my turn now.”

“My lad! My lad!” panted the farmer, “I am sorry.”

“Thanky, farmer; but fine words butter no parsneps. Theer, bairn,” he cried, putting his arm round his wife’s waist; “don’t cry that away. We aren’t owd folks, and I’m going to begin again. Be a good dry plaäce after fire’s done, and theer’ll be some niced bits left for yow to heat the oven when fire’s out.”

“And no oven, no roof, no fireside.”

“Hush! hush! bairn!” said the big fellow thickly. “Don’t I tell thee I’m going to begin again! What say, Mester Dick? Nay, nay, lad, nay.”

“What did Dick say?” said the squire sharply.

“Hush, Hicky!” whispered Dick quickly.

“Nay, lad, I wean’t hoosh! Said, squire, as he’s got thretty shillings saved up, and he’d give it to me to start wi’.”

“And so he shall, my man, and other neighbours will help you too. I’ll make Dick’s thirty shillings a hundred guineas.”

“Well, I can’t do that, Hickathrift,” said Farmer Tallington; “but if ever you want to borrow twenty guineas come to me; and there’s my horse and sled to lead wood wheniver you like, and a willing hand or two to help.”

Hickathrift turned sharply to say something; but he could only utter a great gulp, and, turning away, he went a few yards, and leaned his head upon his arm against a willow tree, and in the bright glow of the burning building, whose gilded smoke rose up like some vast plume, they could see his shoulders heave, while his wife turned to the squire, and in a simple, homely fashion, kissed his hand.

The squire turned to stop Dick, but it was too late, for the lad had reached the wheelwright and laid his hand upon his shoulder.

“Hicky,” he said softly; “be a man!”

“Ay, lad, I will,” said the great fellow, starting up with his eyes wet with tears. “It isn’t the bont plaäce made me soft like that, but what’s been said.”

He had hardly spoken before there was a peculiar noise heard in the distance, as if a drove of cattle had escaped and were coming along the hard road of the fen; but it soon explained itself, for there were shouts and cries, and five minutes later Mr Marston and his men, nearly a hundred strong, came running up, ready to assist, and then utter the fiercest of denunciations against those who had done this thing.

Then there was an ominous silence, as all stood and watched the burning building till there was nothing but a heap of smouldering wood, which was scattered and the last sparks quenched.

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Troubles culminate.

The fire at the wheelwright’s lasted people nearly a month for gossip, but Hickathrift would not believe it was the work of spirits now.

Then came the news of a fresh outrage. The horses employed in bringing stones for certain piers to water-gates were shot dead one night.

Next, a fresh attempt was made to blow up the sluice, but failed.

Last of all, the man who was put on to watch was shot dead, and his body found in the drain.

After this there was a pause, and the work was carried on with sullen watchfulness and bitter hate. The denunciations against the workers of the evil were fierce and long.

But in spite of all, the drain progressed slowly and steadily. The engineer was carrying his advances right into the stronghold of the fen-men, who bore it all in silence, but struck sharply again and again.

“I wonder who is to get the next taste!” said Tom Tallington one day as he and Dick were talking.

“No one,” said Dick; “so don’t talk about it. The people are getting used to the draining, and father thinks they’ll all settle down quietly now.”

“How long is it since that poor fellow was shot?”

“Don’t talk about it, I tell you,” said Dick angrily. “Three months.”

“No.”

“Nearly.”

Dick was right; nearly three months had gone by since the poor fellow set to keep watch by Mr Marston had been shot dead, and this culmination of the horrors of the opposition had apparently startled his murderers from making farther attempts.

“I tell you what it is,” said Tom, “the man who fired that shot and did all the other mischief has left the country. He dare not stay any longer for fear of being caught.”

“Then it was no one over our side of the fen,” said Dick thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are right. Well, I’m going to have a good long day in the bog to-morrow. It’s wonderfully dry now, and I mean to have a good wander. What time shall you be ready?”

“Can’t go,” said Tom. “I’ve promised to ride with father over to the town.”

“What a pity! Well, never mind; we’ll go again the next day and have a good long day then.”

“Will Mr Marston go with us?”

“No. I asked him, and he said he should be too busy at present, but he would go in a fortnight’s time. He said he should not want either of us for a week, so we can go twice if we like.”

Tom smiled as if, in spite of his many wanderings, the idea of a ramble in the fen would be agreeable.

“Shall you fish?” he said.

“N–no, I don’t think I shall. I mean to have a long wander through the flats away west of the fir island.”

“You can’t,” said Tom; “it’s too boggy.”

“Not it. Only got to pick your way. Do you think I don’t know what I’m about?”

“Better take old Solomon with you, and ride him till he sinks in, and then you can walk along his back into a safe place.”

“Then I’d better take another donkey too, and get him to lie down when I come to another soft place.”

“Ah, I would!” said Tom.

“I shall,” said Dick. “Will you come?”

“Do you mean by that to say that I am a donkey?” cried Tom half angrily.

“Yes, when you talk such stupid nonsense. Just as if I couldn’t get through any bog out here in the fen. Anyone would think I was a child.”

“Well, don’t get lost,” said Tom; “but I must go now.”

The boys parted, with the promise that Tom was to come over from Grimsey to breakfast the next morning but one, well provided with lunch; that in the interim Dick was to arrange with Hickathrift about his punt, and that then they were to have a thoroughly good long exploring day, right into some of the mysterious parts of the fen, Dick’s first journey being so much scouting ready for the following day’s advance.

As soon as Dick was left alone he strolled down to the wheelwright’s, having certain plans of his own to exploit.

“Well, Hicky, nearly got all right?” he said.

“Nay, nay, lad, and sha’n’t be for a twelvemonth,” replied the great bluff fellow, staring at his newly-erected cottage. “Taks a deal o’ doing to get that streight. How is it you’re not over at the works?”

“Not wanted for a bit. I say, Hicky, may I have the punt to-morrow?”

“Sewerly, Mester Dick, sewerly. I’ll set Jacob to clear her oot a bit for you. Going fishing?”

“Well—no,” said Dick, hesitating. “I was—er—thinking of doing a little shooting.”

“What at fend o’ June! Nay, nay, theer’s no shooting now.”

“Not regular shooting, but I thought I might get something curious, perhaps, right away yonder.”

“Ay, ay, perhaps so.”

“Might see a big pike basking, and shoot that.”

“Like enough, my lad, like enough. Squire going to lend you a goon?”

Dick shook his head, but the wheelwright was busy taking a shaving off a piece of wood, so did not see it, and repeated his question.

“No, Hicky, I want you to lend me one of those new ones.”

“What, as squire and Mr Marston left for me and Jacob! Nay, nay, lad, that wean’t do.”

“Oh, yes, it will, Hicky. I’ll take great care of it, and clean it when I’ve done. Lend me the gun, there’s a good fellow.”

“Nay, nay. That would never do, my lad. Couldn’t do it.”

“Why not, Hicky?”

“Not mine. What would squire say?”

“He wouldn’t know, Hicky. I shouldn’t tell him.”

“Bud I should, lad. Suppose thou wast to shoot thee sen, or blow off a leg or a hand? Nay, nay. Yow can hev the boat, bud don’t come to me for a gun.”

Hickathrift was inexorable, and what was more, he watched his applicant narrowly, to make sure that Dick did not corrupt Jacob.

His visitor noticed it, and charged him with the fact.

“Ay,” he said, laughing, “that’s a true word. I know what Jacob is. He’d do anything for sixpence.”

“I hope he wouldn’t set fire to the house for that,” said Dick angrily.

Hickathrift started as if stung, and stared at his visitor.

“Nay,” he said, recovering himself, “our Jacob nivver did that. He were fast asleep that night, and his bed were afire when I wackened him. Don’t say such a word as that.”

“I didn’t mean it, Hicky; but do lend me the gun.”

“Nay, my, lad, I wean’t. There’s the poont and welcome, but no gun.”

Dick knew the wheelwright too well to persevere; and in his heart he could not help admiring the man’s stern sense of honesty; so making up his mind to be content with some fishing and a good wander in the untrodden parts of the fen, he asked Hickathrift to get him some baits with his cast-net.

“Ay, I’ll soon get them for you, my lad,” said Hickathrift. “Get a boocket, Jacob, lad.”

The next minute he was getting the newly-made circular net with its pipe-leads from where it hung over the rafters of his shed, and striding down to a suitable shallow where a shoal of small fish could be seen, he ranged the net upon his arm, holding the cord tightly, and, giving himself a spin round, threw the net so that it spread out flat, with the pipe-leads flying out centrifugally, and covering a good deal of space, the leads driving the fish into the centre. When it was drawn a couple of dozen young roach and rudd were made captives, and transferred to the bucket of water Jacob brought.

“Fetch that little bit o’ net and a piece o’ band, lad,” said the wheelwright; and as soon as Jacob reappeared, Hickathrift bound the fine net over the top of the pail, and lowered it by the cord into a deep cold pool close by the punt.

“Theer they’ll be all ready and lively for you in the morning, and you’ll hev better sport than you would wi’ a gun.”

Opinions are various, and Dick’s were very different to the wheelwright’s; but he accepted his rebuff with as good a grace as he could, and went home.

The next morning was delicious. One of those lovely summer-times when the sky is blue, and the earth is just in its most beautiful robe of green.

“Going on the mere, Dick?” said his father. “Well, don’t get drowned or bogged.”

“Dick will take care,” said Mrs Winthorpe, who was busy cutting provender.

“Tom Tallington going with you?” said the squire.

“No, father; I’m going alone.”

“I wish you could have come with me, Hicky!” said Dick, as, laden with his basket of fishing-tackle and provender, he took his place in the punt.

“Ay, and I wish so too,” said the wheelwright, smiling, as he drew up and uncovered the pail of bait to set it in the boat. “Bud too busy. Theer you are! Now, go along, and don’t stop tempting a man who ought to be at work. Be off!”

To secure himself against further temptation he gave the punt a push which sent it several yards away; so, picking up the pole, Dick thrust it down and soon left the Toft behind, while the water glistened, the marsh-marigolds glowed, and the reeds looked quite purple in places, so dark was their green.

Dick poled himself along, watching the water-fowl and the rising herons disturbed in their fishing, while here and there he could see plenty of small fish playing about the surface of the mere; but he was not in an angling humour, and though the tempting baits played about in the bucket he did not select any to hook and set trimmers for the pike that were lurking here and there.

At last, though, he began to grow tired of poling, for the sun was hot; and, thinking it would be better to wait for Tom before he tried to explore the wild part of the fen, he thrust the punt along, to select a place and try for a pike.

This drew his attention to the baits, where one of the little roach had turned up nearly dead, a sure sign that the water required changing, so, setting down the pole, he took up the bucket, and, lowering it slowly over the side, he held one edge level with the water, so that the fresh could pour in and the stale and warm be displaced.

Trifles act as large levers sometimes. In this case for one, a few drops of water from the dripping pole made the bottom of the punt slippery; and as Dick leaned over the side his foot gave way, the weight of the bucket overbalanced him, and he had to seize the side of the punt to save himself. This he did, but as he leaned over, nearly touching the water, it was to gaze at the bucket descending rapidly, and the fish escaping, for he had let go.

“What a nuisance!” he cried, as he saw the great vessel seem to turn of a deeper golden hue as it descended and then disappeared, becoming invisible in the dark water, while the punt drifted away before he could take up the pole to thrust it back.

There was nothing to guide him, and the poling was difficult, for the water was here very deep, and though he tried several times to find the spot where the bucket had gone down, it was without success.

“Why, if I did find it,” he muttered, “I shouldn’t be able to get it up without a hook.”

This ended the prospect of fishing, and as he stood there idly dipping down the pole he hesitated as to what he should do, ending by beginning to go vigorously in the direction of Dave Gittan’s newly-built-up hut.

“I’ll make him take me out shooting,” he said; “and we’ll go all over that rough part of the fen.”

There were very few traces of the past winter’s fire visible at Dave’s home as Dick approached, ran his punt on to the soft bog-moss, and landed, securing his rope to a tree, and there were no signs of Dave.

He shouted, but there was no reply, and it seemed evident that the dog was away as well.

A walk across to Dave’s own special landing-place put it beyond doubt, for the boat was absent.

“What a bother!” muttered Dick, walking back toward the hut, a stronger and better place than the one which had been burned. “Perhaps he has gone to see John Warren!”

Dick hesitated as to whether he should follow, and as he hesitated he reached the door of the hut and peeped in, to make sure that the dog was not there asleep.

The place was vacant, and as untidy already as the old hut. In one corner there was a heap of feathers plucked from the wild-geese he had shot; in another a few skins, two being those of foxes, the cunning animals making the fen, where hunters never came, their sanctuary. There were traces, too, of Dave’s last meal.

But it was at none of these that Dick looked so earnestly, but at the ’coy-man’s old well-rubbed gun hanging in a pair of slings cut from some old boot, and tempting the lad as, under the circumstances, a gun would tempt.

Hickathrift had refused to lend him one, badly as he wanted it; and here by accident was the very thing he wanted staring at him almost as if asking him to take it.

And Dave! where was he?

Dave might be anywhere, and not return perhaps for days. His comings and goings were very erratic, and Dick tried to think that if the man were there he would have lent him the gun.

But it was a failure.

“He wouldn’t have lent it to me,” said Dick sadly; and he turned to go. But as he glanced round, there was the old powder-horn upon a roughly-made shelf, and beside it, the leathern bag in which Dave kept his shot, with a little shell loose therein which he used for a measure.

It was tempting. There was the gun; there lay the ammunition. He could take the gun, use it, and bring it back, and give Dave twice as much powder and shot as he had fired away. He could even clean the gun if he liked; but he would not do that, but bring it back boldly, and own to having taken it Dave would not be very cross, and if he were it did not matter.

He would take the gun.

No, he would not. It was like stealing the man’s piece.

No, it was not—only borrowing, and Dave would be the gainer.

Still he hesitated, thinking of his father, of Hickathrift’s refusal, of its being a mean action to come and take a man’s property in his absence; and in this spirit Dick flung out of the hut and walked straight down to the boat, seeing nothing but that gun tempting him as it were, and asking him to seize the opportunity and enjoy a day’s shooting untrammelled by anyone.

“It wouldn’t do,” he said with a sigh as he got slowly into the boat and stooped to untie the rope, when, perhaps, the position sent the blood rushing to his head. At any rate his wilful thoughts mastered him, and in a spirit of reckless indifference to the consequences he leaped ashore, ran up to the hut, dashed in, caught up the powder-horn and shot-bag, thrust them into his pockets, and seizing the gun, he took it from its leather slings, his hands trembling, and a sensation upon him that Dave was looking in at the door.

“What an idiot I was!” he cried, with a feeling of bravado now upon the increase. “Dave won’t mind, and I want to shoot all by myself.”

He glanced round uneasily enough as he made for the punt, where he laid the gun carefully down, and, seizing his pole, soon sent the vessel to some distance from the hut, every stroke seeming to make him breathe more freely, while a keen sensation of joy pervaded him as he glanced from time to time at the old flint-lock piece, and longed to be where there would be a chance to shoot.

The day was hot as ever, but the heat was forgotten as the punt was sent rapidly along in the direction of the fir-clump island, for it was out there that the wilder part of the fen commenced, and the hope that he would there find the birds more tame consequent upon the absence of molestation made the laborious toil of poling seem light.

But all the same a couple of hours’ hard work had been given to the task, and Dick was still far from his goal, when it occurred to him that a little of the bread and butter cut in slices, and with a good thick piece of ham between each pair, would not be amiss.

He laid the pole across the boat, then, and for a quarter of an hour devoted himself to the task of food conversion for bodily support.

This done, there was the gun lying there. It was not likely that he would have a chance at anything; but he thought it would be as well to be prepared, and in this spirit, with hands trembling from eagerness, he raised the piece and began the task of loading, so much powder, and so much paper to ram down upon it.

But he had no paper. It was forgotten, and Dick paused.

Necessity is the mother of invention. Dick took out his pocket-handkerchief and his knife, and in a few minutes the cotton square was cut up, a piece rammed in as a wad, and a measure of shot poured on the top.

Another piece of handkerchief succeeded, going down the barrel with that peculiar whish whash sound, to be thumped hard with the ramrod at the bottom till the rod was ready to leap out of the barrel again.

Then there was the pan to open and prove full of powder, and all ready for the first great wild bird he should see, or perhaps a hare or a fox, as soon as he should land.

For it was thought no sin to shoot the foxes there in that wild corner of England, where hounds had never been laid on, and the only chance of hunting would have been in boats. Foxes lived and bred there year after year, and died without ever hearing the music of the huntsman’s horn.

Dick laid the gun down with a sigh, and took up the pole, which he used for nearly an hour before, with the fir island well to his left, he ran the punt into a narrow cove among the reeds which spread before him, and, taking the piece, stepped out upon what was a new land.

It must have been with something of the feelings of the old navigators who touched at some far western isle, that Dick Winthorpe landed from his boat, and secured it by knotting together some long rushes and tying the punt rope to them. For here he was in a place where the foot of man could have rarely if ever trod, and, revelling in his freedom and the beauty of the scene around, he shouldered the piece.

He would have acted more wisely if he had filled his pockets with provender from the basket; but he wanted those pockets for the powder and shot, and without intending to go very far from the punt he started, meaning to go in a straight line for some trees he could see at a great distance off, hoping to find something in the shape of game before he had gone far.

It is very easy to make a straight line on a map, but a difficult feat to go direct from one spot to another in a bog.

Dick did not find it out, for he knew it of old, and so troubled himself very little as he plodded on under the hot afternoon sun, now on firm ground, now making some wide deviation so as to avoid a pool of black water. Then there were treacherous morass-like pieces of dark mire thinly covered with a scum-like growth, here green, there bleached in the June sunshine.

It was always hot walking, and made the worse by the way in which, in spite of all his care, his feet sank in the soft soil. At times he plashed along, having to leap from place to place, and then when the way seemed so bad that he felt that he must return, it suddenly became better and lured him on.

He panted and perspired, and struggled on, with the gun always ready; but saving a moor-hen or two upon one or other of the pools, and a coot sailing proudly along at the edge of a reed-bed with her little dingy family, he saw nothing worthy of a shot.

Once there was a rustle among the reeds, but whatever made it was gone before he could see what it was. Once a great heron rose from a shallow place, offering himself as a mark; but it took Dick some time to get a good view of the grey bird, and when at last he brought the sight of the gun to bear upon it, the heron refused to remain still, and the muzzle of the piece described two or three peculiar circles. When at last it was brought steadily to bear upon the mark it was about a hundred yards away, and the trigger was not pulled.

How long Dick had tramped and struggled on through mire and water and over treacherous ground he did not know, but he did not get one chance; and at last, when he stopped short with a horrible sinking sensation in his inner boy, the only things which presented themselves as being ready to be shot were some beautiful swallow-tailed butterflies, while, save that the sun was right before him and going down, the lad had not the slightest idea of where he was.

But he could not stand still, for he was on a soft spot, so he struggled on to where the ground looked more dry, and fortunately for him it proved to be so, and he stood looking round and thinking of going back.

“I wish I had brought something to eat,” he said, gazing wistfully in the direction in which he believed the punt lay.

But it was in vain to wish, so he determined to retrace his steps, fighting against the thought that it would be a difficult task, for to all intents and purposes he had lost all idea of the direction in which he had come. It was very hot, though, and the gun was very heavy. He was weary too with poling the boat and walking, and but for the romance of the expedition he would have declared himself fagged out.

As it was, he thought he would have ten minutes’ rest before starting back, so picking out a good dry firm place, he laid the gun down, and then, seeing how comfortable the gun seemed, he lay at full length upon his back on the soft heather and gazed straight up at the blue sky.

Then his eyes wandered to a cloud of flies, long gnat-like creatures, which were beginning to dance over the reeds, and he lay watching them till he thought he would get up and be on the move.

Then he thought, as it was so refreshing to be still, he would wait another five minutes.

So he waited another five minutes, and then he did not get up, but lay, not looking at the cloud of gnats which were dancing now just over his face as if the tip of his nose were the point from which they streamed upward in the shape of a plume, for Dick Winthorpe was fast asleep.

How long it was Dick did not know, only that it was a great nuisance that that bull would keep on making such a tremendous noise, bellowing and roaring round and round his bed till it annoyed him so much that he started up wide awake and stared.

It was very dark, not a star to be seen; but the bull was bellowing away in the most peculiar manner, seeming as if he were now high up in the air, and now with his muzzle close to the ground practising ventriloquism.

“Where am I?” said Dick aloud; and then, as the peculiar bellowing noise came apparently nearer, “Why, it’s the butterbump!”

Dick was right, it was the butterbump, as the fen people called the great brown bittern, which passed its days in the thickest parts of the bog, and during the darkness rose on high, to circle round and over the unfortunate frogs that were to form its supper, and utter its peculiar bellowing roar.

Dick had never heard it so closely before, and he was half startled by the weird cry. The fen, that had been so silent in the hot June sun, now seemed to be alive with peculiar whisperings and pipings. The frogs were whistling here, a low soft plaintive whistle, and croaking there, while from all around came splashings and quackings and strange cries that were startling in the extreme to one just awakened from the depths of sleep to find himself alone in the darkness, and puzzled by the question: How am I to get back?

No; return was impossible—quite impossible, and the knowledge was forced upon him more and more that he had to make up his mind to pass the night where he was, for to stir meant to go plunge into some bog, perhaps one so deep that his escape with life might be doubtful.

“How stupid I was!” mused Dick. “How hungry I am!” he said aloud. “What a tiresome job!”

He looked around, to see darkness closing him in, not a star visible; but the fen all alive with the sounds, which seemed to increase, for a bittern was answering the one overhead, and another at a greater distance forming himself into a second echo.

“I wonder how long it is since I lay down!” thought Dick.

It might have been four hours—it might have been six or eight. He could not tell, only that he was there, and that his mother would be in a horrible state of dread.

This impressed him so strongly that he was about to start off in a vain effort to find the boat, but his better sense prevailed, and he remained where he was, wondering whether it would be possible to pass the night like that, and, in spite of himself, feeling no little dread of the weird sounds which seemed to come nearer and nearer.

Then the feeling of dread increased, for, though he could see nothing, certain noises he heard suggested themselves as being caused by strange creatures—dwellers in the fen—coming nearer to watch him, and among them he fancied that there were huge eels fresh from the black slime, crawling out of the water, and winding themselves like serpents in and out among the rough grass and heath to get at him and fix their strong jaws upon his legs.

Then little four-footed, sharp-teethed creatures appeared to be creeping about in companies, rushing here and there, while whittricks and rats were waiting till he dropped asleep to leap upon him and bite him, tearing out little pieces of his flesh.

His imagination was so active that his face grew wet with horror, till, making an effort over himself, he started right up and angrily stamped his foot.

“I didn’t think I was such a coward,” he said half aloud; and then, “I hope poor mother will not be very much alarmed, and I wish Tom Tallington was here!”

The wish was so selfishly comic that he laughed and felt better, for now a new idea came to him.

It was very dark, but the nights were at their shortest now, and it would be daybreak before three—at least so light that he might venture to try and regain the boat.

He stood for a while listening to the noises in the fen; the whispering and chattering, piping and croaking, with the loud splashings and rustlings among the reeds, mingled with the quacking of ducks and the scuttering of the drakes, while every now and then the bittern uttered his hoarse wild roar.