After he had done his business, he took the pony to its owner, who, of course, recognized it at once. “Now,” said the agister, “this must be stopped, or some rogues will give the gipsies a bad name. It’s your duty to prosecute the men where I found the pony.” More he urged of similar argument on old Finch, who heard him in silence, and then flatly declined to take any proceedings whatever, “I got the pony back, thanks to ye; and much obleeged, I’m sure. But I does business with the gipsies, and most of ’em are a pretty good sort, and stick to their bargain. If I prosecuted e’er a one of them, we should never get on again. I’m out for peace and quietness with my neighbours, and I shan’t let a pony come between us.” And though the agister, having to take an official view of the matter, protested, at heart he felt there was much to be said for the old man’s decision.
The Path to the Rufus Stone.
XIII.—THE BROKEN LEG
One wet afternoon towards the end of September, the colt-hunter was in his stable mending some harness. A yell from his youngest boy made him jump, and he half-rose to see what was the matter, but turned to his work again, as the boy’s little sister let forth a shriek of delight. “Up to some lark,” he muttered, then started, as both children shouted at the top of their voices, “Peter! Peter!” At the same instant the gate slammed, the sound of a heavy boot was heard, and the man tumbled outside, with the harness in his hand, to find himself face to face with his eldest son in full kit, tin hat, rifle and bandolier, and slung around with billycans, etc., his boots still coated with the white slime of the French hills.
“Peter!” “Father!” came out at one breath, and as they grasped hands, their faces came together, and they kissed—an odd thing, perhaps, for forest men to do, but a son coming home from the war unexpectedly was a thrilling moment, and apt to break down even the reserve of a lifetime. Peter, never forgotten for a single day, though not always mentioned by his parents, suddenly appearing, as if from the skies, was enough to make his father gasp, unable to utter more than, “Well, lad!” Then Mother, apprised, came rushing forth, full of joy, and yet of wrath at not being the first to salute her firstborn. She hugged and kissed him until he begged for mercy. “The lad’s tired, Mother,” said the father; “let’s in, so’s he can get his things off, and have a wash;” and Peter wanted this last badly. How the youngsters revelled in the tin hat and its dents, while the father spent some time cleaning his son’s boots. “Quite a bit of France,” he said, as he carefully swept the chalk off the bench into an empty matchbox.
You should have seen Peter eat, when he got among his mother’s tarts and cakes. It appeared that he had the usual fourteen days’ leave, of which some time had already expired since he left Havre. “What a shame!” exclaimed his mother. “However, we won’t think of going away yet;” and everyone was happy, though later on, as Peter inquired for first one and then another of his old schoolfellows, faces fell, and answer was made sadly. After tea Peter felt a bit sleepy, so the youngsters were sent off to play elsewhere, while he stretched himself on a couch before the fire. He had to be wakened for supper, but he didn’t mind, and said he would rather be called anything than late for meals.
The next morning, of course, Peter wanted a mount, and inquired what ponies were about. “You know the three in the stable,” said his father; “and there’s a blue roan mare in the paddock, but she’s not properly broken in yet, and you’ll find her rather skittish.” Whereupon Peter, like a true forest lad, declared she would be just the thing for him, and with the aid of his two brothers, drove her into the yard and secured her.