Great Uncle Hoot-Toot

Jowett looked at Geoff.

"Very well," said Geoff.

"And you must go to church reg'lar," added the farmer. "You can manage it well enough, and Sunday school, too, if you're sharp – there's only twice to the station on Sundays."

"On Sundays, too?" repeated Geoff. Sundays at worst had been a day of no work at home.

"To be sure," said Eames, sharply. "Beasts can't do for themselves on Sundays no more than any other day. And Londoners can't drink sour milk on Sundays neither."

"No," said Geoff, meekly enough. "Of course I'm used to church," he added, "but I think I'm rather too old for the Sunday school."

"I'll leave that to the parson," said the farmer. "Well, now then, we may as well see if dinner's not ready. It's quite time, and you'll be getting hungry, Mr. Jowett," he added, with a slight hesitation.

"Why not call me Ned? You're very high in your manners to-day, Eames," said the other, with a sort of wink.

Then they both laughed and walked on, leaving Geoff to follow. Nothing was said about his being hungry.

"Perhaps I shall be expected to dine with the pigs," he thought.

CHAPTER IX.

PIGS, ETC

It was not quite so bad as that, however. Farmer Eames turned in at the farmyard gate and led the two strangers into a good-sized kitchen, where the table was already set, in a homely fashion, for dinner. A stout, middle-aged woman, with a rather sharp face, turned from the fire, where she was superintending some cooking.

"Here we are again, wife," said Eames. "Glad to see dinner's ready. Take a chair, Mr. Ned. You'll have a glass of beer to begin with?" and as he poured it out, "This here's the new boy, missis – I've settled to give him a trial."

Mrs. Eames murmured something, which Geoff supposed must have been intended as a kind of welcome. She was just then lifting a large pan of potatoes off the fire, and as she turned her face to the light, Geoff noticed that it was very red – redder than a moment before. He could almost have fancied the farmer's wife was shy.

"Shall I help you?" he exclaimed, darting forward to take hold of the pan.

Eames burst out laughing.

"That's a good joke," he said. "He knows which side his bread's buttered on, does this 'ere young fellow."

Geoff grew scarlet, and some angry rejoinder was on his lips, when Jowett, who to his great indignation was laughing too, clapped him on the shoulder.

"Come, my boy, there's naught to fly up about. Eames must have his joke."

"I see naught to laugh at," said Mrs. Eames, who had by this time shaken the potatoes into a large dish that stood ready to receive them; "the lad meant it civil enough."

"You're not to spoil him now, wife," said her husband. "It's no counter-jumpers' ways we want hereabouts. Sit thee down, Ned; and Jim, there, you can draw the bench by the door a bit nearer the dresser, and I'll give you some dinner by-and-by."

Geoff, his heart swelling, did as he was bid. He sat quietly enough, glad of the rest and the warmth, till Mr. and Mrs. Eames and their guest were all helped, and had allayed the first sharp edge of their appetites. But from time to time the farmer's wife glanced at Geoff uneasily, and once, he felt sure, he saw her nudge her husband.

"She means to be kind," thought the boy.

And her kindness apparently had some effect. The farmer looked round, after a deep draught of beer, and pushed his tankard aside.

"Will you have a sup, Jim?" he said good-naturedly. "I can't promise it you every day; but for once in a way."

"No, thank you," Geoff replied. "I never take beer; moth – " but he stopped suddenly.

"As you like," said the farmer; "but though you're not thirsty, I dare say you're hungry."

He cut off a slice of the cold meat before him, and put it on a plate with some potatoes, and a bit of dripping from a dish on the table. The slice of meat was small in proportion to the helping of potatoes; but Geoff was faint with hunger. He took the plate, with the steel-pronged fork and coarse black-handled knife, and sat down again by the dresser to eat. But, hungry though he was, he could not manage it all. Half-way through, a sort of miserable choky feeling came over him: he thought of his meals at home – the nice white tablecloth, the sparkling glass and silver, the fine china – and all seemed to grow misty before his eyes for a minute or two; he almost felt as if he were going to faint, and the voices at the table sounded as if they came from the other side of the Atlantic. He drank some water – for on his refusing beer, Mrs. Eames had handed him a little horn mug filled with water; it was as fresh and sweet as any he had ever tasted, and he tried at the same time to swallow down his feelings. And by the time that the farmer stood up to say grace, he felt pretty right again.

"And what are you going to be about, Eames?" said Jowett. "I'll walk round the place with you, if you like. I must take the four train up again."

"All right," the farmer replied; "Jim can take you to the station when he goes to fetch the cans. You'll see that he doesn't come to grief on the way. Do 'ee know how to drive a bit?"

"Oh yes," replied Geoff, eagerly. "I drove a good deal last summer at – in the country. And I know I was very fond of it."

"Well," said the farmer, drily, "you'll have enough of it here. But the pony's old; you mustn't drive him too fast. Now, I'll tell one of the men to show you the yard, and the pig-sties, and the missis'll show you where she keeps the swill-tub. It'll want emptying – eh, wife?"

"It do that," she replied. "But he must change his clothes afore he gets to that dirty work. Those are your best ones, ain't they?"

Geoff looked down at his suit. It was not his best, for he had left his Eton jackets and trousers behind him. The clothes he had on were a rough tweed suit he had had for the country; he had thought them very far from best. But now it struck him that they did look a great deal too good for feeding the pigs in.

"I've got an older pair of trousers in my bag," he said; "but this is my oldest jacket."

"He should have a rougher one," said Mrs. Eames. "I'll look out; maybe there's an old coat of George's as'd make down."

"All right," said Eames. "But you've no need of a coat at all to feed the pigs in. Whoever heard o' such a thing?"

Just then a voice was heard at the door.

"I'm here, master," it said, "fur the new boy."

"All right," said Eames; and, followed by Geoff, in his shirt-sleeves by this time, he led the way to the farmyard.

It was interesting, if only it had not been so cold. Matthew, the man, was not very communicative certainly, and it seemed to the new boy that he eyed him with some disfavour. Eames himself just gave a few short directions, and then went off with Jowett.

"Them's the stables," said Matthew, jerking his thumb towards a row of old buildings, "and them's the cow-houses," with a jerk the other way. "Old pony's with master's mare, as he drives hisself. I've nought to say to pony; it's your business. And I'll want a hand with cart-horses and plough-horses. Young folks has no call to be idle."

"I don't mean to be idle," said Geoff; "but if Mr. Eames doesn't find fault with me, you've no call to do so either."

He spoke more valiantly than he felt, perhaps, for Matthew's stolid face and small, twinkling eyes were not pleasant. He muttered something, and then went grumbling across the yard towards a wall, from behind which emanated an odour which required no explanation.

"Them's pigs," said he. Matthew had a curious trick of curtailing his phrases as his temper waxed sourer. Articles, prepositions, and auxiliary verbs disappeared, till at last his language became a sort of spoken hieroglyphics.

Geoff looked over the pig-sty wall. Grunt, grumph, snort – out they all tumbled, one on the top of the other, making for the trough. Poor things! it was still empty. Geoff could hardly help laughing, and yet he felt rather sorry for them.

"I'll go and fetch their dinner," he said. "I don't mind pigs; but they are awfully dirty."

"Ax the missus for soap to wash 'em," said Matthew, with a grin. He hadn't yet made up his mind if the new boy was sharp or not.

"No," said Geoff, "I'll not do that till the first of April; but I'll tell you what, Matthew, I'll not keep them as dirty as they are. And I should say that the chap that's been looking after them is a very idle fellow." Matthew scowled. "Pigs don't need to be so dirty," Geoff went on. "I know at Cole – " But he stopped abruptly. He was certainly not going to take Matthew into his confidence. He asked to be shown the pony – poor old pony! it didn't look as if it would be over "sperrity" – and then he went back to the house to fetch the pigs' dinner.