"Oh, dear," he exclaimed, "I thought you were John."
I have often seen Harry dirty—very dirty,—but from the mud on his boots to the marks on his face where he had pushed the hair out of his eyes with earthy fingers, I never saw him quite so grubby before. And if there had been a clean place left in any part of his clothes well away from the ground, that spot must have been soiled by a huge and very dirty sack, under the weight of which his poor little shoulders were bent nearly to his knees.
"What are you doing, Honest Root-gatherer?" I asked; "are you turning yourself into a hump-backed dwarf?"
"I'm not honest, and I'm not a Root-gatherer just now," said Harry, when he had got breath after setting down his load. He spoke shyly and a little surlily, like Chris when he is in mischief.
"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.