Great Uncle Hoot-Toot

Very hot, instead of cold, he was by the time he had carried across pail after pail of Mrs. Eames's "swill," and emptied it into the barrel which stood by the sty. It wasn't savoury work, either, and the farmer's wife made a kind of excuse for there being so much of it. "Matthew were that idle," and they'd been a hand short the last week or two. But Geoff wasn't going to give in; there was a sort of enjoyment in it when it came to the actual feeding of the pigs, and for their digestion's sake, it was well that the farmer's wife warned him that there might be such a thing as over-feeding, even of pigs. He would have spent the best part of the afternoon in filling the trough and watching them squabble over it.

He was tired and hot, and decidedly dirtier-looking than could have been expected, when Eames and Jowett came back from the fields.

"Time to get the pony to!" shouted the farmer. Geoff turned off to the stable. He wanted to manage the harnessing alone; but, simple as it was, he found it harder than it looked, and he would have been forced to apply to Matthew, had not Jowett strolled into the stable. He felt sorry for the boy, sorrier than he thought it well to show, when he saw his flushed face and trembling hands, and in a trice he had disentangled the mysteries of buckles and straps, and got all ready.

"Been working hard?" he said good-naturedly. "Seems a bit strange at first."

"I don't mind the work; but – it does all seem very rough," said Geoff.

There was a slight quiver in his voice, but Jowett said no more till they were jogging along on their way to the station. Geoff's spirits had got up a little again by this time. He liked to feel the reins between his fingers, even though the vehicle was only a milk-cart, and the steed a sadly broken-winded old gray pony; and he was rather proud at having managed to steer safely through the yard gate, as to which, to tell the truth, he had felt a little nervous.

"Is there anything I can do for you on my way through town?" asked Jowett. "I'll be in your part of the world to-night."

"Are you going to sleep at the livery stables?" asked Geoff.

Jowett nodded.

"I wish – " began the boy. "If I'd thought of it, I'd have written a letter for you to post in London. But there's no time now."

Jowett looked at his watch – a very good silver watch it was – "I don't know that," he said. "I can get you a piece of paper and an envelope at the station, and I'll see that your letter gets to – wherever it is, at once."

"Thank you," said Geoff. "And Jowett" – he hesitated. "You've been very good to me – would you mind one thing more? There's some one I would like to hear from sometimes, but I don't want to give my address. Could I tell them – her – it's my sister – to write to your place, and you to send it to me?"

"To be sure," said Jowett. "But I won't give my address in the country. You just say to send on the letter to the care of

'Mr. Abel Smith,

Livery Stables,

Mowbray Place Mews,'

and I'll see it comes straight to you. You won't want to give your name maybe? Just put 'Mr. James, care of Abel Smith.'"

"Thank you," said Geoff, with a sigh of relief. "You see," he went on, half apologetically, "there's some one ill at home, and I'd like to know how – how they are."

"To be sure," said Jowett again; "it's only natural. And however bad one's been treated by one's people – and it's easy to see they must have treated you oncommon badly to make a young gent like you have to leave his home and come down to work for his living like a poor boy, though I respects you for it all the more – still own folks is own folks."

He cast a shrewd glance at Geoff, as he spoke. The boy could not help colouring. Had he been treated so "oncommon badly"? Was his determination to run away and be independent of Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's assistance a real manly resolution, or not rather a fit of ill-tempered boyish spite? Would he not have been acting with far more true independence by accepting gratefully the education which would have fitted him for an honourable career in his own rank? for Mr. Byrne, as he knew well by his mother's trust in the old gentleman, was not one to have thrown him aside had he been worthy of assistance.

"But anyway, it's done now," thought the boy, choking down the feelings which began to assert themselves.

At the station, Jowett was as good as his word. He got the paper and a pencil, and Geoff wrote a short note to Vicky, just to tell her he was "all right," and enclosing the address to which she was to write. And Jowett undertook that she should have it that same evening. Had the boy been less preoccupied he could not but have been struck by the curious inconsistencies in the young countryman, who, when he had first met him that morning, had seemed scarcely able to find his way to the station, and yet, when occasion arose, had shown himself as sharp and capable as any Londoner.

But as it was, when the train had whizzed off again, he only felt as if his last friend had deserted him. And it was a very subdued and home-sick Geoffrey who, in the chilly, misty autumn evening, drove the old pony through the muddy lanes to the farm, the empty milk-cans rattling in the cart behind him, and the tears slowly coursing down his cheeks now there was no one to see them.

CHAPTER X.

POOR GEOFF!

He drove into the yard, where Matthew's disagreeable face and voice soon greeted him. Half forgetting himself, Geoff threw the reins on to the pony's neck and jumped out of the cart, with his carpet-bag. He was making his way into the house, feeling as if even the old bag was a kind of comfort in its way, when the farm-man called him back.

"Dost think I's to groom pony?" he said ill-naturedly. "May stand till doomsday afore I'll touch him."

Geoff turned back. Of course, he ought to have remembered it was his work, and if Matthew had spoken civilly he would even have thanked him for the reminder – more gratefully, I dare say, than he had often thanked Elsa or Frances for a hint of some forgotten duty. But, as it was, it took some self-control not to "fly out," and to set to work, tired as he was, to groom the pony and put him up for the night. It was all so strange and new too; at Colethorne's he had watched the stablemen at their work, and thought it looked easy and amusing, but when it came to doing it, it seemed a very different thing, especially in the dusk, chilly evening, and feeling as he did both tired and hungry. He did his best, however, and the old pony was very patient, poor beast, and Geoff's natural love of animals stood him in good stead; he could never have relieved his own depression by ill temper to any dumb creature. And at last old Dapple was made as comfortable as Geoff knew how, for Matthew took care to keep out of the way, and to offer no help or advice, and the boy turned towards the house, carpet-bag in hand.

The fire was blazing brightly in the kitchen, and in front of it sat the farmer, smoking a long clay pipe, which to Geoff smelt very nasty. He coughed, to attract Mr. Eames's attention.

"I've brought my bag from the station," he said. "Will you tell me where I'm to sleep?"

The farmer looked up sharply.

"You've brought the milk-cans back, too, I suppose? Your bag's not the principal thing. Have you seen to Dapple?"

"Yes," said Geoff, and his tone was somewhat sulky.

Eames looked at him again, and still more sharply.

"I told you at the first you were to keep a civil tongue in your head," he said. "You'll say 'sir' when you speak to me."

But just then Mrs. Eames fortunately made her appearance.

"Don't scold him – he's only a bit strange," she said. "Come with me, Jim, and I'll show you your room."

"Thank you," said the boy, gratefully.

Mrs. Eames glanced at her husband, as much as to say she was wiser than he, and then led the way out of the kitchen down a short, flagged passage, and up a short stair. Then she opened a door, and, by the candle she held, Geoff saw a very small, very bare room. There was a narrow bed in one corner, a chair, a window-shelf, on which stood a basin, and a cupboard in the wall.

Mrs. Eames looked round. "It's been well cleaned out since last boy went," she said. "Master and me'll look in now and then to see that you keep it clean. Cupboard's handy, and there's a good flock mattress." Then she gave him the light, and turned to go.

"Please," said Geoff, meekly, "might I have a piece of bread? I'm rather hungry." It was long past his usual tea-time.

"To be sure!" she replied. "You've not had your tea? I put it on the hob for you." And the good woman bustled off again.

Geoff followed her, after depositing his bag in the cupboard. She poured out the tea into a bowl, and ladled in a good spoonful of brown sugar. Then she cut a hunch off a great loaf, and put it beside the bowl on the dresser. Geoff was so hungry and thirsty, that he attacked both tea and bread, though the former was coarse in flavour, and the latter butterless. But it was not the quality of the food that brought back again that dreadful choking in his throat, and made the salt tears drop into the bowl of tea. It was the thought of tea-time at home – the neat table, and Vicky's dear, important-looking little face, as she filled his cup, and put in the exact amount of sugar he liked – that came over him suddenly with a sort of rush. He felt as if he could not bear it. He swallowed down the tea with a gulp, and rammed the bread into his pocket. Then, doing his utmost to look unconcerned, he went up to the farmer.

"Shall I go to bed now, please, sir?" he said, with a little hesitation at the last word. "I'm – I'm rather tired."

"Go to bed?" repeated Eames. "Yes, I suppose so. You must turn out early – the milk must be at the station by half-past five."

"How shall I wake?" asked Geoff, timidly.

"Wake? You'll have to learn to wake like others do. However, for the first, I'll tell Matthew to knock you up."

"Thank you. Good-night, sir."

"Good-night." And the farmer turned again to the newspaper he was reading.

"You'll find your bed well aired. I made Betsy see to that," called out Mrs. Eames.