"That doesn't matter," cried courageous Dick; "I'll pick up a big bundle of sticks in the woods during dinner-time. And when I come out of school this afternoon, I'll get another lot."
And Dick Wilkins was as good as his word. He collected a huge bundle of fuel when he came out of school at twelve, and when lessons were over in the afternoon, he hastened to the woods again to get another lot together.
The weather was chill, indeed; but he paid no heed to the fact, so busy was he in selecting and collecting his sticks. He had barely succeeded in binding up his second load when, to his surprise, he turned and found a gentleman within a foot of him—one whom he at once recognized as the artist who lodged at Farmer Smerdon's.
"Don't be frightened, my boy," said the new-comer, seeing the child start and colour slightly. "You are doing no harm, I am sure, and it is a pity these branches should be left to rot in the woods when they would make such capital fires. But now to come at once to business! Will you run an errand for me? If so, I'll guard your fagot the while."
"Yes, sir," was Dick's quick reply.
A sensation of delight came over him as he thought of the coppers that he was in view of earning. He would take them home to his mother as a pleasant surprise. Oh, how pleased, how thankful she would be!
"Well, the fact is, I have left a small box of water-colour paints on the seat in the church porch," the artist lost no time in explaining; "and as I have walked a great many miles already this afternoon, I feel too tired to go back for it. On the other hand, if the village children should come upon my property, I fear they may do it damage."
"I'll fetch it straightway, sir. Please, is that all? Isn't there brushes as well?"
"No; I have my brushes with me. It is only the box I have forgotten."
"Right, sir; I'll be back again in no time."