“Yes,” he said coolly; “it’s a way the hands have wherever new folk come and don’t hev a reg’lar watchman. There wouldn’t hev been none of that sort o’ thing if I had been here.”
“Then you don’t expect any more troubles of this kind?”
“More! Not likely, mester. We’ve ways of our own down here; and as soon as the lads know that Tom Searby’s on as watchman there’ll be no more trouble.”
“I hope there will not,” said Uncle Dick as soon as the man had gone. “It will be worth all his wages to be able to sleep in peace.”
About this time there had been some talk of my father and mother coming down to Arrowfield, but once more difficulties arose in town which necessitated my father’s stay, and as my mother was rather delicate, it was decided that she should not be brought up into the cold north till the springtime came again.
“All work and no play makes—you know the rest,” said Uncle Jack one morning at breakfast. “I won’t say it, because it sounds egotistic. Cob, what do you say? Let’s ask for a holiday.”
“Why not all four go?” I said eagerly; for though the works were very interesting and I enjoyed seeing the work go oil, I was ready enough to get away, and so sure as the sun shone brightly I felt a great longing to be off from the soot and noise to where the great hills were a-bloom with heather and gorse, and tramp where I pleased.
Uncle Dick shook his head.
“No,” he said; “two of us stay—two go. You fellows have a run to-day, and we’ll take our turn another time.”
We were too busy to waste time, and in high glee away we went, with no special aim in view, only to get out of the town as soon as possible, and off to the hills.