Chapter Eight.
A Long Day.
Hugh, meantime, was counting the hours till Saturday. Perhaps, if the truth were known, so was Phil, though he was too old to acknowledge such a longing. But the climbing about the mill,—the play encouraged there by his uncle and the men,—his uncle’s stories within doors, his aunt’s good dinners,—the fire-side, the picture-books, the talk of home, altogether made up the greatest treat of the half-year. Phil had plenty of ways of passing the time. Hugh began a long letter home,—the very last letter, except the short formal one which should declare when the Christmas vacation should commence. Hugh meant to write half the letter before Saturday, and then fill it up with an account of his visit to his uncle’s.
The days were passed, however, when Hugh had the command of his leisure time, as on his arrival, when his hours were apt to hang heavy. He had long since become too valuable in the playground to be left to follow his own devices. As the youngest boy, he was looked upon as a sort of servant to the rest, when once it was found that he was quick and clever. Either as scout, messenger, or in some such capacity, he was continually wanted; and often at times inconvenient to himself. He then usually remembered what Mr Tooke had told him of his boy, when Tooke was the youngest,—how he bore things—not only being put on the high wall, but being well worked in the service of the older boys. Usually Hugh was obliging, but he could and did feel cross at times. He was cross on this Friday,—the day when he was so anxious to write his letter before going to his uncle’s. On Saturday there would be no time. The early mornings were dark now; and after school he should have to wash and dress, and be off to his uncle’s. On Friday then, his paper was ruled, and he had only to run across the playground to borrow Firth’s penknife, and then nothing should delay his letter.
In that ran across the playground he was stopped. He was wanted to collect clean snow for the boys who were bent on finishing their snow-man while it would bind. He should be let off when he had brought snow enough. But he knew that by that time his fingers would be too stiff to hold his pen; and he said he did not choose to stop now. Upon this Lamb launched a snowball in his face. Hugh grew angry,—or, as his schoolfellows said, insolent. Some stood between him and the house, to prevent his getting home, while others promised to roll him in the snow till he yielded full submission. Instead of yielding, Hugh made for the orchard-wall, scrambled up it, and stood for the moment out of the reach of his enemies. He kicked down such a quantity of snow upon any one who came near, that he held all at bay for some little time. At last, however, he had disposed of all the snow within his reach, and they were pelting him thickly with snow-balls. It was not at any time very easy to stand upright, for long together, upon this wall, as the stones which capped it were rounded. Now, when the coping-stones were slippery after the frost, and Hugh nearly blinded with the shower of snow-balls, he could not keep his footing, and was obliged to sit astride upon the wall. This brought one foot within reach from below; and though Hugh kicked, and drew up his foot as far and as often as he could, so as not to lose his balance, it was snatched at by many hands. At last, one hand kept its hold, and plenty more then fastened upon his leg. They pulled: he clung. In another moment, down he came, and the large, heavy coping-stone, loosened by the frost, came after him, and fell upon his left foot as he lay.
It was a dreadful shriek that he gave. Mrs Watson heard it in her store-room, and Mr Tooke in his study. Some labourers felling a tree in a wood, a quarter of a mile off, heard it, and came running to see what could be the matter. The whole school was in a cluster round the poor boy in a few seconds. During this time, while several were engaged in lifting away the stone, Tooke stooped over him, and said, with his lips as white as paper,—
“Who was it that pulled you,—that got the first hold of you? Was it I? O! Say it was not I.”
“It was you,” said Hugh. “But never mind! You did not mean it.”—He saw that Tooke’s pain was worse than his own, and he added, in a faint whisper,—
“Don’t you tell, and then nobody will know. Mind you don’t!”