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  STURDY AND STRONG

  G. A. HENTY

  "SURLY JOE SAT WITH A CHILD ON EITHER SIDE, TELLING THEM SEA STORIES."--_Frontispiece._ _Sturdy and Strong._]

  STURDY AND STRONG OR _How George Andrews Made His Way_

  BY G. A. HENTY

  AUTHOR OF "THE YOUNG CARTHAGINIAN," "WITH CLIVE IN INDIA," "IN FREEDOM'S CAUSE," "THE LION OF THE NORTH," "FACING DEATH," ETC., ETC., ETC.

  NEW YORK THE FEDERAL BOOK COMPANY PUBLISHERS

  PREFACE.

  Whatever may be said as to distinction of classes in England, it iscertain that in no country in the world is the upward path more opento those who brace themselves to climb it than in our own. Theproportion of those who remain absolutely stationary is comparativelysmall. We are all living on a hillside, and we must either go up ordown. It is easier to descend than to ascend; but he who fixes hiseyes upwards, nerves himself for the climb, and determines with allhis might and power to win his way towards the top, is sure to findhimself at the end of his day at a far higher level than when hestarted upon his journey. It may be said, and sometimes foolishly issaid, that luck is everything; but in nineteen cases out of twentywhat is called luck is simply a combination of opportunity, and of thereadiness and quickness to turn that opportunity to advantage. Thevoyager must take every advantage of wind, tide, and current, if hewould make a favorable journey; and for success in life it isnecessary not only to be earnest, steadfast, and true, but to have thefaculty of turning every opportunity to the best advantage; just as aclimber utilizes every tuft of grass, every little shrub, everyprojecting rock, as a hold for his hands or feet. George Andrews hadwhat may be called luck--that is, he had opportunities and tookadvantage of them, and his rise in life was consequently far morerapid than if he had let them pass without grasping them; but in anycase his steadiness, perseverance, and determination to get on wouldassuredly have made their way in the long run. If similar qualitiesand similar determinations are yours, you need not despair of similarsuccess in life.

  G. A. HENTY.

  CONTENTS.

  STURDY AND STRONG: PAGE I. ALONE, 1 II. TWO FRIENDS, 25 III. WORK, 48 IV. HOME, 74 V. AN ADVENTURE, 97 VI. FIRE! 117 VII. SAVED! 142 DO YOUR DUTY, 165 SURLY JOE, 231 A FISH-WIFE'S DREAM, 257

  STURDY AND STRONG.

  CHAPTER I.

  ALONE.

  "You heard what he said, George?"

  "Oh, mother, mother!"

  "Don't sob so, my boy; he is right. I have seen it coming a long time,and, hard as it seems, it will be better. There is no disgrace in it.I have tried my best, and if my health had not broken down we mighthave managed, but you see it was not to be. I shall not mind it, dear;it is really only for your sake that I care about it at all."

  The boy had ceased sobbing, and sat now with a white set face.

  "Mother, it will break my heart to think that I cannot keep you fromthis. If we could only have managed for a year or two I could haveearned more then; but to think of you--you in the workhouse!"

  "In a workhouse infirmary, my boy," his mother said gently. "You see itis not as if it were from any fault of ours. We have done our best. Youand I have managed for two years; but what with my health and my eyesbreaking down we can do so no longer. I hope it will not be for long,dear. You see I shall have rest and quiet, and I hope I shall soon beable to be out again."

  "Not soon, mother. The doctor said you ought not to use your eyes formonths."

  "Even months pass quickly, George, when one has hope. I have felt thiscoming so long that I shall be easier and happier now it has come. Afterall, what is a workhouse infirmary but a hospital, and it would not seemso very dreadful to you my going into a hospital; the difference is onlyin name; both are, after all, charities, but the one is kept up out ofsubscriptions, the other from the rates."

  His mother's words conveyed but little comfort to George Andrews. He hadjust come in from his work, and had heard what the parish doctor hadtold his mother.

  "I can do nothing for you here, Mrs. Andrews. You must have rest andquiet for your eyes, and not only that, but you must have strengtheningfood. It is no use my blinking the truth. It is painful for you, I know.I can well understand that; but I see no other way. If you refuse to goI won't answer for your life."

  "I will go, doctor," she had answered quietly. "I know that it will bebest. It will be a blow to my boy, but I see no other way."

  "If you don't want your boy to be alone in the world, ma'am, you will doas I advise you. I will go round in the morning and get you the order ofadmission, and as I shall be driving out that way I will, if you like,take you myself."

  "Thank you, doctor; you are very good. Yes, I will be ready in themorning, and I thank you for your offer."

  "Very well, then, that's settled," the doctor said briskly. "At teno'clock I will be here."

  Although a little rough in manner, Dr. Jeffries was a kind-hearted andhumane man.

  "Poor woman," he said to himself as he went downstairs, "it is hard forher. It is easy to see that she is a lady, and a thorough lady too; butwhat can I do for her! I might get her a little temporary help, but thatwould be of no use--she is completely broken down with anxiety andinsufficient food, and unless her eyes have a long holiday she will loseher sight. No, there's nothing else for it, but it is hard."

  It was hard. Mrs. Andrews was, as the doctor said, a lady. She had lostboth her parents while she was at school. She had no near relations, andas she was sixteen when her mother died she had remained at schoolfinishing her education and teaching the younger children. Then she hadobtained a situation as governess in a gentleman's family, and two yearsafterwards had married a young barrister who was a frequent visitor atthe house.

  Mr. Andrews was looked upon as a rising man, and for the first seven oreight years of her marriage his wife's life had been a very happy one.Then her husband was prostrated by a fever which he caught in one of themidland towns while on circuit, and although he partially recovered hewas never himself again. His power of work seemed to be lost; a languorwhich he could not overcome took possession of him. A troublesome coughere long attacked him, and two years later Mrs. Andrews was a widow, andher boy, then nine years old, an orphan.

  During the last two years of his life Mr. Andrews had earned butlittle in his profession. The comfortable house which he occupied hadbeen given up, and they had removed to one much smaller. But in spiteof this, debts mounted up, and when, after his death, the remainingfurniture was sold and everything settled, there remained only abouttwo hundred pounds. Mrs. Andrews tried to get some pupils among herlate husband's friends, but during the last two years she had lostsight of many of these, and now met with but poor success among theothers. She was a quiet and retiring woman, and shrank from continuoussolicitations, and at the end of three years she found her littlestore exhausted.

  Hitherto s
he had kept George at school, but could no longer do so,and, giving up her lodging in Brompton, went down to Croydon, wheresomeone had told her that they thought she would have a better chanceof obtaining pupils, but the cards which some of the tradesmen allowedher to put in the window led to no result, and finding this to be thecase she applied at one of the milliner's for work. This she obtained,and for a year supported herself and her boy by needlework.

  From the time when George left school she had gone on teaching him hislessons; but on the day when he was thirteen years old he declaredthat he would no longer submit to his mother working for both of them,and, setting out, called at shop after shop inquiring if they wantedan errand-boy. He succeeded at last in getting a place at a grocer'swhere he was to receive three shillings a week and his meals, goinghome to sleep at night in the closet-like little attic adjoining theone room which his mother could now afford.

  For a while they were more comfortable than they had been for sometime; now that his mother had no longer George to feed, her earningsand the three shillings he brought home every Saturday night enabledthem to live in comparative ease, and on Sunday something like a feastwas always prepared. But six months later Mrs. Andrews felt hereyesight failing, the lids became inflamed, and a dull aching painsettled in the eyeballs. Soon she could only work for a short timetogether, her earnings became smaller and smaller, and her employerspresently told her that she kept the work so long in hand that theycould no longer employ her. There was now only George's threeshillings a week to rely upon, and this was swallowed up by the rent.In despair she had applied to the parish doctor about her eyes. For afortnight he attended her, and at the end of that time hadperemptorily given the order of which she had told her son.

  To her it was a relief; she had seen that it must come. Piece by pieceevery article of clothing she possessed, save those she wore, had beenpawned for food, and every resource was now exhausted. She was wornout with the struggle, and the certainty of rest and food overcame herrepugnance to the house. For George's sake too, much as she knew hewould feel her having to accept such a refuge, she was glad that thestruggle was at an end. The lad had for the last six months sufferedgreatly for her sake. Every meal to which he sat down at hisemployer's seemed to choke him as he contrasted it with the fare towhich she was reduced, although, as far as possible, she had concealedfrom him how sore was her strait.

  George cried himself to sleep that night, and he could scarce speakwhen he said good-by to his mother in the morning, for he could nottell when he should see her again.

  "You will stop where you are, my boy, will you not?"

  "I cannot promise, mother. I don't know yet what I shall do; butplease don't ask me to promise anything. You must let me do what Ithink best. I have got to make a home for you when you are cured. I amfourteen now, and am as strong as most boys of my age. I ought to beable to earn a shilling a day somehow, and with seven shillings aweek, mother, and you just working a little, you know, so as not tohurt your eyes, we ought to be able to do. Don't you bother about me,mother. I want to try anyhow what I can do till you come out. When youdo, then I will do whatever you tell me; that's fair, isn't it?"

  Mrs. Andrews would have remonstrated, but he said:

  "Well, mother, you see at the worst I can get a year's character fromDutton, so that if I can't get anything else to do I can get the samesort of place again, and as I am a year older than I was when he tookme, and can tie up parcels neatly now, I ought to get a little moreanyhow. You see I shall be safe enough, and though I have nevergrumbled, you know, mother--have I?--I think I would rather doanything than be a grocer's boy. I would rather, when I grow up, be abricklayer's laborer, or a plowman, or do any what I call man's work,than be pottering about behind a counter, with a white apron on,weighing out sugar and currants."

  "I can't blame you, George," Mrs. Andrews said with a sigh. "It'snatural, my boy. If I get my eyesight and my health again, when yougrow up to be a man we will lay by a little money, and you and I willgo out together to one of the colonies. It will be easier to riseagain there than here, and with hard work both of us might surely hopeto get on. There must be plenty of villages in Australia and Canadawhere I could do well with teaching, and you could get work inwhatever way you may be inclined to. So, my boy, let us set thatbefore us. It will be something to hope for and work for, and willcheer us to go through whatever may betide us up to that time."

  "Yes, mother," George said. "It will be comfort indeed to havesomething to look forward to. Nothing can comfort me much to-day; butif anything could it would be some such plan as that."

  The last words he said to his mother as, blinded with tears, he kissedher before starting to work, were:

  "I shall think of our plan every day, and look forward to that morethan anything else in the world--next to your coming to me again."

  At ten o'clock Dr. Jeffries drove up to Mrs. Andrews' humble lodgingin a brougham instead of his ordinary gig, having borrowed thecarriage from one of the few of his patients who kept such a vehicle,on purpose to take Mrs. Andrews, for she was so weak and worn that hewas sure she would not be able to sit upright in a gig for the threemiles that had to be traversed. He managed in the course of his roundsto pass the workhouse again in the afternoon, and brought George,before he left work, a line written in pencil on a leaf torn from hispocketbook:

  "My darling, I am very comfortable. Everything is clean and nice, and the doctor and people kind. Do not fret about me.--Your loving mother."

  Although George's expressed resolution of leaving his presentsituation, and seeking to earn his living in some other way, causedMrs. Andrews much anxiety, she had not sought strongly to dissuade himfrom it. No doubt it would be wiser for him to stay in his presentsituation, where he was well treated and well fed, and it certainlyseemed improbable to her that he would be able to get a better livingelsewhere. Still she could not blame him for wishing at least to try.She herself shared to some extent his prejudice against the work inwhich he was employed. There is no disgrace in honest work; but shefelt that she would rather see him engaged in hard manual labor thanas a shop boy. At any rate, as he said, if he failed he could comeback again to Croydon, and, with a year's character from his presentemployer, would probably be able to obtain a situation similar to thatwhich he now held. She was somewhat comforted, too, by a few wordsthe doctor had said to her during their drive.

  "I think you are fortunate in your son, Mrs. Andrews. He seems to me afine steady boy. If I can, in any way, do him a good turn while youare away from him, I will."

  George remained for another month in his situation, for he knew thatit would never do to start on his undertaking penniless. At the end ofthat time, having saved up ten shillings, and having given notice tohis employer, he left the shop for the last time, and started to walkto London. It was not until he began to enter the crowded streets thathe felt the full magnitude of his undertaking. To be alone in London,a solitary atom in the busy mass of humanity, is a trying situationeven for a man; to a boy of fourteen it is terrible. Buying a pennyroll, George sat down to eat it in one of the niches of a bridge overthe river, and then kneeling up watched the barges and steamerspassing below him.

  Had it not been for his mother, his first thought, like that of mostEnglish boys thrown on the world, would have been to go to sea; butthis idea he had from the first steadily set aside as out of thequestion. His plan was to obtain employment as a boy in somemanufacturing work, for he thought that there, by steadiness andperseverance, he might make his way.

  On one thing he was resolved. He would make his money last as long aspossible. Three penny-worth of bread a day would, he calculated, besufficient for his wants. As to sleeping, he thought he might manageto sleep anywhere; it was summer time and the nights were warm. He hadno idea what the price of a bed would be, or how to set about gettinga lodging. He did not care how roughly he lived so that he could butmake his money last. The first few days he determined to look abouthim. Something might turn up. If i
t did not he would set about gettinga place in earnest. He had crossed Waterloo Bridge, and, keepingstraight on, found himself in Covent Garden, where he was astonishedand delighted at the quantities of fruit, vegetables, and flowers.

  Although he twice set out in different directions to explore thestreets, he each time returned to Covent Garden. There were many ladsof his own age playing about there, and he thought that from them hemight get some hints as to how to set about earning a living. Theylooked ragged and poor enough, but they might be able to tell himsomething--about sleeping, for instance. For although before startingthe idea of sleeping anywhere had seemed natural enough, it lookedmore formidable now that he was face to face with it.

  Going to a cook-shop in a street off the market he bought two slicesof plum-pudding. He rather grudged the twopence which he paid; but hefelt that it might be well laid out. Provided with the pudding hereturned to the market, sat himself down on an empty basket, and beganto eat slowly and leisurely.

  In a short time he noticed a lad of about his own age watching himgreedily.

  He was far from being a respectable-looking boy. His clothes wereragged, and his toes could be seen through a hole in his boot. He woreneither hat nor cap, and his hair looked as if it had not been combedsince the day of his birth. There was a sharp, pinched look on hisface. But had he been washed and combed and decently clad he would nothave been a bad-looking boy. At any rate George liked his face betterthan most he had seen in the market, and he longed for a talk withsomeone. So he held out his other slice of pudding, and said:

  "Have a bit?"

  "Oh, yes!" the boy replied "Walker, eh?"

  "No, I mean it, really. Will you have a bit?"

  "No larks?" asked the boy.

  "No; no larks. Here you are."

  Feeling assured now that no trick was intended the boy approached,took without a word the pudding which George held out, and, seatinghimself on a basket close to him, took a great bite.

  "Where do you live?" George asked, when the slice of pudding had halfdisappeared.

  "Anywheres," the boy replied, waving his hand round.

  "I mean, where do you sleep?"

  The boy nodded, to intimate that his sleeping-place was included inthe general description of his domicile.

  "And no one interferes with you?" George inquired.

  "The beaks, they moves you on when they ketches you; but ef yer getunder a cart or in among the baskets you generally dodges 'em."

  "And suppose you want to pay for a place to sleep, where do you go andhow much do you pay?"

  "Tuppence," the boy said; "or if yer want a first-rate, fourpence.Does yer want to find a crib?" he asked doubtfully, examining hiscompanion.

  "Well, yes," George said. "I want to find some quiet place where I cansleep, cheap, you know."

  "Out of work?" the boy inquired.

  "Yes. I haven't got anything to do at present. I am looking for aplace, you know."

  "Don't know no one about?"

  "No; I have just come in from Croydon."

  The boy shook his head.

  "Don't know nothing as would suit," he said. "Why, yer'd get themclothes and any money yet had walked off with the wery fust night."

  "I should not get a room to myself, I suppose, even for fourpence?"George asked, making a rapid calculation that this would come to twoand fourpence per week, as much as his mother had paid for acomparatively comfortable room in Croydon.

  The boy opened his eyes in astonishment at his companion requiring aroom for himself.

  "Lor' bless yer, yer'd have a score of them with yer!"

  "I don't care about a bed," George said. "Just some place to sleep in.Just some straw in any quiet corner."

  This seemed more reasonable to the boy, and he thought the matterover.

  "Well," he said at last, "I knows of a place where they puts up thehosses of the market carts. I knows a hostler there. Sometimes whenit's wery cold he lets me sleep up in the loft. Aint it warm andcomfortable just! I helps him with the hosses sometimes, and that'swhy. I will ax him if yer likes."

  George assented at once. His ideas as to the possibility of sleepingin the open air had vanished when he saw the surroundings, and a bedin a quiet loft seemed to him vastly better than sleeping in a roomwith twenty others.

  "How do you live?" he asked the lad, "and what's your name?"

  "They calls me the Shadder," the boy said rather proudly; "but my realname's Bill."

  "Why do they call you the Shadow?" George asked.

  "'Cause the bobbies finds it so hard to lay hands on me," Billreplied.

  "But what do they want to lay hands on you for?" George asked.

  "Why, for bagging things, in course," Bill replied calmly.

  "Bagging things? Do you mean stealing?" George said, greatly shocked.

  "Well, not regular prigging," the Shadow replied; "not wipes, yerknow, nor tickers, nor them kind of things. I aint never priggednothing of that kind."

  "Well, what is it then you do--prig?" George asked, mystified.

  "Apples or cabbages, or a bunch of radishes, onions sometimes, or'taters. That aint regular prigging, you know."

  "Well, it seems to me the same sort of thing," George said, after apause.

  "I tell yer it aint the same sort of thing at all," the Shadow saidangrily. "Everyone as aint a fool knows that taters aint wipes, and noone can't say as a apple and a ticker are the same."

  "No, not the same," George agreed; "but you see one is just as muchstealing as the other."

  "No, it aint," the boy reasserted. "One is the same as money andt'other aint. I am hungry and I nips a apple off a stall. No one aintthe worse for it. You don't suppose as they misses a apple here? Why,there's wagon-loads of 'em, and lots of 'em is rotten. Well, it aintno more if I takes one than if it was rotten. Is it now?"

  George thought there was a difference, but he did not feel equal toexplaining it.

  "The policemen must think differently," he said at last, "else theywouldn't be always trying to catch you."

  "Who cares for the bobbies?" Bill said contemptuously. "I don't; and Idon't want no more jaw with you about it. If yer don't likes it, yerleaves it. I didn't ask for yer company, did I? So now then."

  George had really taken a fancy to the boy, and moreover he saw thatin the event of a quarrel his chance of finding a refuge for the nightwas small. In his sense of utter loneliness in the great city he wasloath to break with the only acquaintance he had made.

  "I didn't mean to offend you, Bill," he said; "only I was sorry tohear you say you took things. It seems to me you might get intotrouble; and it would be better after all to work for a living."

  "What sort of work?" Bill said derisively. "Who's agoing to give mework? Does yer think I have only got to walk into a shop and ask for'ployment? They wouldn't want to know nothing about my character, Isuppose? nor where I had worked before? nor where my feyther lived?nor nothing? Oh, no, of course not! It's blooming easy to get workabout here; only got to ax for it, that's all. Good wages and allfound, that's your kind."

  "I don't suppose it's easy," George said; "but it seems to me peoplecould get something to do if they tried."

  "Tried!" the boy said bitterly. "Do yer think we don't try! Why, weare always trying to earn a copper or two. Why, we begins at threeo'clock in the morning when the market-carts come in, and we goes ontill they comes out of that there theater at night, just trying topick up a copper. Sometimes one does and sometimes one doesn't. It's agood day, I tell you, when we have made a tanner by the end of it.Don't tell me! And now as to this ere stable; yer means it?"

  "Yes," George said; "certainly I mean it."

  "Wery well then, you be here at this corner at nine o'clock. I will gobefore that and square it with Ned. That's the chap I was speakingof."

  "I had better give you something to give him," George said. "Will ashilling do?"

  "Yes, a bob will do for three or four nights. Are you going to trustme with it?"

  "O
f course I am," George replied. "I am sure you wouldn't be so meanas to do me out of it; besides, you told me that you never stole moneyand those sort of things."

  "It aint everyone as would trust me with a bob for all that," Billreplied; "and yer are running a risk, yer know, and I tells yer if yergoes on with that sort of game yer'll get took in rarely afore yer'vedone. Well, hand it over. I aint a-going to bilk yer."

  The Shadow spoke carelessly, but this proof of confidence on the partof his companion really touched him, and as he went off he said tohimself, "He aint a bad sort, that chap, though he is so preciousgreen. I must look arter him a bit and see he don't get into nomischief."

  George, on his part, as he walked away down into the Strand again,felt that he had certainly run a risk in thus intrusting a tenth ofhis capital to his new acquaintance; but the boy's face and manner hadattracted him, and he felt that, although the Shadow's notions ofright and wrong might be of a confused nature, he meant to actstraight toward him.

  George passed the intervening hours before the time named for hismeeting in Covent Garden in staring into the shop windows in theStrand, and in wondering at the constant stream of vehicles and footpassengers flowing steadily out westward. He was nearly knocked underthe wheels of the vehicles a score of times from his ignorance as tothe rule of the road, and at last he was so confused by the jostlingand pushing that he was glad to turn down a side street and to sitdown for a time on a doorstep.

  When nine o'clock approached he went into a baker's shop and bought aloaf, which would, he thought, do for supper and breakfast for himselfand his companion. Having further invested threepence in cheese, hemade his way up to the market.

  The Shadow was standing at the corner whistling loudly.

  "Oh, here yer be! That's all right; come along. I have squared Ned,and it's all right."

  He led the way down two or three streets and then stopped at agateway.

  "You stop here," he said, "and I will see as there aint no one but Nedabout."

  He returned in a minute.

  "It's all clear! Ned, he's a-rubbing down a hoss; he won't take nonotice of yer as yer pass. He don't want to see yer, yer know, 'causein case anyone comed and found yer up there he could swear he neversaw yer go in, and didn't know nothing about yer. I will go with yerto the door, and then yer will see a ladder in the corner; if yer whipup that yer'll find it all right up there."

  "But you are coming too, aint you?" George asked.

  "Oh, no, I aint a-coming. Yer don't want a chap like me up there. Imight pick yer pocket, yer know; besides I aint your sort."

  "Oh, nonsense!" George said. "I should like to have you with me, Bill;I should really. Besides, what's the difference between us? We haveboth got to work for ourselves and make our way in the world."

  "There's a lot of difference. Yer don't talk the way as I do; yer havebeen brought up different. Don't tell me."

  "I may have been brought up differently, Bill. I have been fortunatethere; but now, you see, I have got to get my living in the best way Ican, and if I have had a better education than you have, you know everso much more about London and how to get your living than I do, sothat makes us quits."

  "Oh, wery well," Bill said; "it's all the same to this child. So ifyer aint too proud, here goes."

  He led the way down a stable yard, past several doors, showing theempty stalls which would be all filled when the market carts arrived.At the last door on the right he stopped. George looked in. At thefurther end a man was rubbing down a horse by the faint light of alantern, the rest of the stable was in darkness.

  "This way," Bill whispered.

  Keeping close behind him, George entered the stable. The boy stoppedin the corner.

  "Here's the ladder. I will go up fust and give yer a hand when yergets to the top."

  George stood quiet until his companion had mounted, and then ascendedthe ladder, which was fixed against the wall. Presently a voicewhispered in his ear:

  "Give us your hand. Mind how yer puts your foot."

  In a minute he was standing in the loft. His companion drew him alongin the darkness, and in a few steps arrived at a pile of hay.

  "There yer are," Bill said in a low voice; "yer 'ave only to makeyourself comfortable there. Now mind you don't fall down one of theholes into the mangers."

  "I wish we had a little light," George said, as he ensconced himselfin the hay.

  "I will give you some light in a minute," Bill said, as he left hisside, and directly afterwards a door opened and the light of agaslight in the yard streamed in.

  "That's where they pitches the hay in," Bill said as he rejoined him."I shuts it up afore I goes to sleep, 'cause the master he comes outsometimes when the carts comes in, and there would be a blooming rowif he saw it open; but we are all right now."

  "That's much nicer," George said. "Now here's a loaf I brought withme. We will cut it in half and put by a half for the morning, and eatthe other half between us now, and I have got some cheese here too."

  "That's tiptop!" the boy said. "Yer're a good sort, I could see that,and I am pretty empty, I am, for I aint had nothing except that bitof duff yer gave me since morning, and I only had a crust then. 'Ceptfor running against you I aint been lucky to-day. Couldn't get a jobnohows, and it aint for want of trying neither."

  For some minutes the boys ate in silence. George had given much thelargest portion to his companion, for he himself was too dead tired tobe very hungry. When he had finished, he said:

  "Look here, Bill; we will talk in the morning. I am so dead beat I canscarcely keep my eyes open, so I will just say my prayers and go offto sleep."

  "Say your prayers!" Bill said in astonishment. "Do yer mean to say asyer says prayers!"

  "Of course I do," George replied; "don't you?"

  "Never said one in my life," Bill said decidedly; "don't know how,don't see as it would do no good ef I did."

  "It would do good, Bill," George said. "I hope some day you will thinkdifferently, and I will teach you some you will like."

  "I don't want to know none," Bill said positively. "A missionary chap,he came and prayed with an old woman I lodged with once. I could notmake head nor tail of it, and she died just the same, so you see whatgood did it do her?"

  But George was too tired to enter upon a theological argument. He wasalready half asleep, and Bill's voice sounded a long way off.

  "Good-night," he muttered; "I will talk to you in the morning," and inanother minute he was fast asleep.

  Bill took an armful of hay and shook it lightly over his companion;then he closed the door of the loft and threw himself on the hay, andwas soon also sound asleep. When George woke in the morning thedaylight was streaming in through the cracks of the door. Hiscompanion was gone. He heard the voices of several men in the yard,while a steady champing noise and an occasional shout or the sound ofa scraping on the stones told him the stalls below were all full now.

  George felt that he had better remain where he was. Bill had told himthe evening before that the horses and carts generally set out againat about nine o'clock, and he thought he had better wait till they hadgone before he slipped down below. Closing his eyes he was very soonoff to sleep again. When he woke, Bill was sitting by his side lookingat him.

  "Well, you are a oner to sleep," the boy said. "Why, it's nigh teno'clock, and it's time for us to be moving. Ned will be going off in afew minutes, and the stables will be locked up till the evening."

  "Is there time to eat our bread and cheese?" George asked.

  "No, we had better eat it when we get down to the market; comealong."

  George at once rose, shook the hay off his clothes, and descended theladder, Bill leading the way. There was no one in the stable, and theyard was also empty. On reaching the market they sat down on two emptybaskets, and at once began to eat their bread and cheese.