But Kirkin shook his head. He had been a gardener in his prime, but now had to get his living by odd jobs as best he could.
"Sleep or no sleep, can't afford to throw up work," said he. "But when a lad's missing, so that no one knows what's come of him, a man can't stay in bed to sleep. His mother's like to kill herself."
"I wonder where he's gone," said Dick, which was quite true, so far as it went. Nevertheless, he felt very uncomfortable, sitting down to breakfast with the secret of Bill's disappearance on his mind.
[CHAPTER XIII.]
THE YOUNG SQUIRE ASSUMES A NEW CHARACTER.
THREE or four days passed, but no tidings came of Bill the Kicker.
A week went by, and still he was away. They had the river dragged, and all the ponds; every ditch and pitfall in the neighbourhood was searched; and printed bills, describing him, were posted up outside all the police stations of the district; but all to no effect.
The April rains had come on now, and the world had suddenly burst into verdure. It was a lovely vista that the Squire looked down over the gate of the wood, when he went to see after the repairs at the cottage. But he had to take his morning walks alone now. The tutor had returned, and Easter holidays were up.
Dick's presentiments, too, were realized. His father had found a school for him; and nine o'clock saw him strapping up his books and hurrying off to learn as much mischief and as little solid information as he could—after the fashion of boys made on his pattern.