"Harry, what's that?"
"It's a sack I borrowed from Michael. It won't hurt it, it's had mangel-wurzels in already."
"What have you got in it now? It looks dreadfully heavy."
"It is heavy, I can tell you," said Harry, with one more rub of his dirty fingers over his face.
"You look half dead. What is it?"
"It's top spit;" and Harry began to discharge his load on to the walk.
"Oh, Harry, where did you get it?"
"Out of the paddock. I've been digging up turfs and getting this out, and putting the turfs back, and stamping them down not to show, ever since six o'clock. It was hard work; and I was so afraid of John coming. Mary, you won't tell tales?"
"No, Harry. But I don't think you ought to have taken it without Mother's leave."
"I don't think you can call it stealing," said Harry. "Fields are a kind of wild places anyhow, and the paddock belongs to Father, and it certainly doesn't belong to John."