“Hugh! Hugh! Do stop one minute:—ar’nt you going to Langford?” Hugh just turned his head round, without stopping his horse, or his whistling: when he saw that it was only little William Sawkins, he smacked his whip, and drove on; and did not so much as give him an answer.
William, however, tumbled over the style, and ran after the cart a little way, calling out—“Just give me a ride, Hugh;—I’ve a great basket of eggs to carry to Langford: just give me a ride, Hugh—do—do.” But Hugh took no notice; he only kept whistling and cutting with his whip at the geese that were waddling along, one by one, on the raised path by the road side. William at length, finding Hugh Bludgell would not listen to him, returned into the field for his basket. When he got into the road again, he set himself down to rest on the green bank under the hedge: it had been a cloudy morning, but now the sun shone out. William began to pluck the primroses and daisies, which grew about, and stuck them in the band of his hat, and he very soon forgot ill-tempered Hugh Bludgell, the baker’s boy. Perhaps he sat half an hour; and then walked slowly on, sometimes swinging the basket on his stick across his shoulder; sometimes putting it on his head; and sometimes trailing it in the dust as he held it in one hand. He had not gone more than a mile, when, all at once, he saw, at some distance before him, the baker’s cart, half overturned against the hedge, and one wheel deep in the ditch. Hugh was jerking and pulling the horse’s bridle, and striking the poor beast violently on the legs and face with the butt-end of the whip.
As soon as William came within hearing, Hugh called to him,—“Is that you, Billy Sawkins?—There’s a good fellow, now; put your basket down here, and run on to the Duke’s Head, and tell ’em the cart’s in the ditch, and they must send somebody to hove ’em out:—run now—and I’ll mind your eggs.”
While Hugh was speaking, the old horse had backed some steps, and let the cart deeper into the ditch, and had began to munch the long grass on the hedge, which was close to his head. The horse was quite blind, but when he heard Hugh coming towards him again, he flung back his head, and breathed out two long streams of steam from his nostrils. Hugh, however, let him alone for the present. William put his basket behind a tree in the hedge, and ran off to the Duke’s Head: the distance was a full mile. When he got there, it was some time before any body would attend to him: at length they promised that the hostler should come when he had had his dinner. William therefore, having delivered his message, returned to take up his basket, but before he reached the place, he met Hugh, driving the cart, which he had, at length, contrived to get out of the ditch without help.
William thought that now certainly Hugh would let him ride the rest of the way. “Hugh,” said he, “have you brought my basket with you?”
“Basket!” said Hugh; “no, to be sure; I dare say it stands safe enough where you left it:” and away he drove; but he presently stopped, and looking back, bawled out,—“I say, Billy Sawkins,—mind now, you don’t go and talk to nobody about the cart being overturned; I say,—you promise me, you tell no tales; or I’ll make you remember it.” William promised that he would keep the secret; and then trudged back, very tired, out of heart, and hungry, for it was now three o’clock, and he had had no dinner. Happily, he found his basket where he had left it: he made the best of his way to Mrs. Dobson’s,—left his burden,—and felt it so pleasant to have nothing to carry back, that he would have been quite merry, if he had not been puzzled to think what he should say to his mother, to account for his returning so late. He dared not tell a lie; and he had promised Hugh Bludgell not to tell any one of the overturning of the cart. It happened, however, that William’s mother had been out all the afternoon, and did not return till after he got home; so that he had to answer no questions.
When the hostler from the Duke’s Head came to the spot to which he had been directed, and found no cart, he did not feel well pleased that he had had his walk for nothing. A few days afterwards, the baker, Hugh Bludgell’s master, called at the Duke’s Head.
“So, Mr. Needham,” said the hostler, “your lucky boy managed to overturn the cart, or near to it, a Friday.”
“Did he though, Tom?” said the baker: “he di’nt tell me that.”
“No, I’ll warrant ye.—You don’t hear half the tricks he plays.”