“You must make him work harder,” suggested Mrs. Badger.
“I mean to. Now, we will settle about this little affair. Where is Bill?”
“Out in the field, digging potatoes,” said Andrew glibly.
“Go and call him.”
“All right, sir.”
And the boy prepared to obey the command with uncommon alacrity.
Poor Bill, nervous and unhappy, had been hard at work in the potato field through the long forenoon, meditating bitterly on his sad position. So far as he knew, there was no one that loved him, no one that cared for him. He was a friendless boy. From Mr. and Mrs. Badger and Andrew he never received a kind nor encouraging word, but, instead, taunts and reproaches, and the heart of the poor boy, hungering for kindness, found none.
“Will it always be so?” he asked himself. “If Andrew would only be kind to me I would do anything for him, but he seems to hate me, and so does Mrs. Badger. Mr. Badger isn’t quite so bad, but he only cares for the work I do.”
The poor boy sighed heavily as he leaned for a moment upon his hoe. “He was roused by a sharp voice.
“Shirking your work, are you?” said Andrew. “I’ve caught you this time. What’ll my father say to that?”