box," as the triangle of turf is called, where the two causeways coming from the school-porch and the hall-porch meet, and our fights are mainly celebrated; only we must wait until the convoy of horses had passed, and then make a ring by candlelight, and the other boys would like it. But suddenly there came round the post where the letters of our founder are, not from the way of Taunton, but from the side of Lowman bridge, a very small string of horses, only two indeed (counting for one the pony), and a red-faced man on the bigger nag.
"Plaise ye, worshipful masters," he said, being feared of the gateway, "carn 'e tull whur our Jan Ridd be?"
"Hyur a be, ees fai, Jan Ridd," answered a sharp little chap, making game of John Fry's language.
"Zhow un up, then," says John Fry, poking his whip through the bars at us; "Zhow un up, and putt un aowt."
The other little chaps pointed at me, and some began to holla; but I knew what I was about.
"Oh, John, John," I cried; "what's the use of your coming now, and Peggy over the moors, too, and it so cruel cold for her? The holidays don't begin till Wednesday fortnight, John. To think of your not knowing that!"
John Fry leaned forward in the saddle, and turned his eyes away from me; and then there was a noise in his throat, like a snail crawling on a windowpane.
"Oh, us knaws that wull enough, Maister Jan; reckon every Oare-man knaw that, without go to skoo-ull, like you doth. Your moother have kept arl the apples up, and old Betty toorned the black puddens, and none dare set trap for a blagbird. Arl for thee, lad; every bit of it now for thee!"
He checked himself suddenly, and frightened me. I knew that John Fry's way so well.
"And father, and father—oh, how is father?" I pushed the boys right and left as I said it. "John, is father up in town! He always used to come for me, and leave nobody else to do it."
"Vayther 'll be at the crooked post, t'other zide o' telling-house.[1] Her coodn't lave 'ouze by raison of the Christmas bakkon comin' on, and zome o' the cider welted."
He looked at the nag's ears as he said it; and, being up to John Fry's ways, I knew that it was a lie. And my heart fell, like a lump of lead, and I leaned back on the stay of the gate, and longed no more to fight any body. A sort of dull power hung over me, like the cloud of a brooding tempest, and I feared to be told anything. I did not even care to stroke the nose of my pony Peggy, although she pushed it in through the rails, where a square of broader lattice is, and sniffed at me, and began to crop gently after my fingers. But whatever lives or dies, business must be attended to; and the principal business of good Christians is, beyond all controversy, to fight with one another.
- ↑ The "telling-houses" on the moor are rude cots where the shepherds meet, to "tell" their sheep at the end of the pasturing season.
