‘Mother never grudged us cricket, nor nothing in reason,’ said Alfred. ‘Lucky you that could make hay at all! And what made you so taken up with that new boy that Ellen runs on against, and will have it he’s a convict?’
‘A convict! if Ellen says that again!’ cried Harold; ‘no more a convict than she is.’
‘What is he, then? Where does he come from?’
‘His name is Paul Blackthorn,’ said Harold; ‘and he’s the queerest chap I ever came across. Why, he knew no more what to do with a prong than the farmer’s old sow till I shewed him.’
‘But where did he come from?’ repeated Alfred.
‘He walked all the way from Piggot’s turnpike yesterday,’ said Harold. ‘He’s looking for work.’
‘And before that?’
‘He’d been in the Union out—oh! somewhere, I forgot where, but it’s a name in the Postal Guide.’
‘Well, but you’ve not said who he is,’ said Ellen.
‘Who? why, I tell you, he’s Paul Blackthorn.’