"I know that, and, therefore, should not waste time in trying."
"Would you give up, then?"
He smiled—there was no "giving up" in that smile of his. "I'll tell you what I'd do—I'd begin and break it, twig by twig, till I forced my way through, and got out safe at the other side."
"Well done, lad!—but if it's all the same to thee, I would rather thee did not try that experiment upon MY hedge at present."
My father had come behind, and overheard us, unobserved. We were both somewhat confounded, though a grim kindliness of aspect showed that he was not displeased—nay, even amused.
"Is that thy usual fashion of getting over a difficulty, friend—what's thy name?"
I supplied the answer. The minute Abel Fletcher appeared, John seemed to lose all his boyish fun, and go back to that premature gravity and hardness of demeanour which I supposed his harsh experience of the world and of men had necessarily taught him; but which was very sad to see in a lad so young.
My father sat down beside me on the bench—pushed aside an intrusive branch of clematis—finally, because it would come back and tickle his bald pate, broke it off, and threw it into the river: then, leaning on his stick with both hands, eyed John Halifax sharply, all over, from top to toe.
"Didn't thee say thee wanted work? It looks rather like it."
His glance upon the shabby clothes made the boy colour violently.