"No, sir," said the mother; "he isn't in just now."
"And you couldn't say exactly where he is?"
"I couldn't, sir," said she.
"Can you tell me where he was all the morning, two days ago?" the Squire asked.
"Two days ago?" reflected Mrs. Mumby. "Yes, sir; I believe I can. We did some mangling early, him and me, afore his father comed in to he's breakfast; and Bill went out to take it home. All the morning arter that, sir, he was in the field just by the farm, along o' some strange gent as took a fancy to the looks of him, and wanted for to put him in a pictur' of the church. A pretty bit it is, too, sir. I've often noticed it agoin' 'crost the fields on summer evenings, when the bells was ringing out for service, sir."
"Well, Mrs. Mumby," said the Squire, anxious to recall her to the point.
"Yes, sir; as I was a-saying," continued Bill's mother, "and I wanted him so bad that day to turn the mangle and carry linen home; but of course I naturally thinks, thinks I, 'he'll sure to give him something for his time.' But it's like such folks, sir; ne'er a copper did my Bill get out of him. Come home empty-handed, sir; that he did! And me near dragged to death."
"Did he though!" returned the Squire. "I've heard a different tale to that. The gentleman—a friend of mine, now staying at the Manor House—informs me that he gave the boy a silver sixpence for his time. Now what say you to that?"
"That I'm sorry I should have to tell it of my own, sir," answered Mrs. Mumby, looking down; "but I'm bound to own as Bill is often caught out in untruths. It a'n't for want of bringing up. His father never catches him but what he gets the strap; and so he shall this time, sir, that he shall. His father 'll be right mad to hear of it."
"But that is not all, I'm grieved to say," pursued the Squire, going on to tell her the rest of his charges against her rapscallion son.