While Hugh sat in the branches, venturing to leave hold with one hand, that he might fan his hot face with his cap, Firth stood on the rail of the palings, holding by the tree, and talking to him. Firth told him that this was the only tree the boys were allowed to climb, since Ned Reeve had fallen from the great ash, and hurt his spine. He showed what trees he had himself climbed before that accident; and it made Hugh giddy to think of being within eight feet of the top of the lofty elm in the churchyard, which Firth had thought nothing of mounting.
“Did anybody teach you?” asked Hugh.
“Yes; my father taught me to climb, when I was younger than you.”
“And had you anybody to teach you games and things, when you came here?”
“No: but I had learned a good deal of that before I came; and so I soon fell into the ways here. Have you anybody to teach you?”
“No— yes— why, no. I thought Phil would have showed me things; but he does not seem to mind me at all.” And Hugh bit his lip, and fanned himself faster.
“Ah! He attends to you more than you think.”
“Does he? Then why— but what good does it do me?”
“What good? His holding off makes you push your own way. It lets you make friends for yourself.”
“I have no friends here,” said Hugh.