'Joseph Thatcher, Little Eston,' read Dick, from the side of the cart.
'Ay, that's me,' said the higgler. 'Joe Thatcher: lived in Little Eston all my life.'
'And you were on your road home?' went on Dick.
'Just comin' back from town,' replied the old man. 'I'd been wi' a load of butter an' fowls an' what-not for two or three neighbours, an' left the things at different shops. An' now I must get my cart home somehow an' tell my neighbours what's happened.'
'I see,' said Chippy. 'That's aw' right. I'll run yer cart home for ye.'
'Yes,' said Dick; 'we'll soon run it home for you.'
'No, yer don't,' said the Raven to his friend. 'Ye'll stop here an' tek' care o' the traps till I get back;' and with these words he whipped off haversack and jacket, and tossed them on to the bank.
'Oh, that won't do, Chippy,' cried Dick; 'that's just a trick to prevent me lending a hand.'
'Trick or no trick, it's just wot 'ull happen,' said the Raven firmly. 'It's rather more'n two miles back to Eston—that's four goin' an' comin', an' you wi' a game foot. No, not an inch back do ye stir. Besides, it gies me the chance to strip to the work nice an' comfortable.'
'But you can't shift that cart by yourself,' cried Dick.