Paul the Courageous

by Mabel Quiller-Couch

"Never mind, sir, you can come another time. I'm sorry you're so bad, but when I saw you cutting along so spry I thought perhaps you was all right again; but we shall be using un again next week, and you can come then, perhaps," and Farmer Minards at last moved away, to Paul's intense relief, for he had been terrified all the time lest someone else should come along and catch him.

He ran on to the boot-house, but with little hope of finding Muggridge there now, for he would probably be out in the hay-field with the rest of the men. A thought had come to him, however, that he himself might manage to clean the mud off the boots, if he was quick. When he reached the boot-house it was as he feared, no Muggridge was there; but to his horror someone else was—no other than Mrs. Minards herself, and at sight of her Paul turned and fled in dismay. Too much scared to know what he was doing he ran swiftly through the yard, and into the kitchen-garden. At that moment a clock struck five and he knew that his mother would be expecting him down to tea now. What could he do? He could not get back to the house again; he peeped out and saw people moving about in the yard and at the doorway; it was impossible to get past unobserved. But those boots must be got rid of somehow. He looked about the garden eagerly for a spot in which to hide them, but a high stone wall surrounded the place, and the garden itself was so neat and tidy there was no chance of hiding anything there without the risk of being found out. And Mrs. Minards, he remembered, was always pottering about in her garden.

There was no time to spare either, and at the thought that in a moment his mother or some one would be searching for him, he fled out of the garden into the open country beyond. Outside the walls lay the moor, the big brown old moor. Surely here he could find a hiding-place for his unfortunate boots, and could tell Muggridge where to look for them. It was a splendid idea, he thought; there could not be a better hiding-place, and running as fast as his feet could carry him to a clump of furze, he pushed his boots far in under the bush, took one glance to see that all was safe, and fled back again to the garden-door.

"Paul, Pau—aul." He heard his own name being called, and ran on with a new fear in his heart. What would they think of him and his tale of his sprained foot if he reached them breathless and hot? So he slackened his pace, and when he came to the door leading from the garden into the yard he sauntered through in the most easy, casual manner he knew how to assume. When he came in sight of the house he saw his mother standing at the door. As soon as she saw him she beckoned him to hurry.

"Why, Paul dear, where have you been? Tea has been ready a long time, and I have searched for you all over the house. How hot and flushed and tired you look. Is your foot paining you? You should not have gone out, you know."

He was afraid to speak lest his breathlessness should betray him. "It is not so very bad now, thank you. I think it is getting better." He spoke so oddly and looked so unlike himself that his mother wondered what was the matter with him.

"Have you been out in the sun long?" she asked anxiously.

"No—o," he answered. "I've only been strolling about a little."

"It is hard to keep at home on such a lovely afternoon, but I think you would have done wisely to have rested," said Mrs. Anketell, sympathetically; and putting her arm about his shoulders they went to the orchard, where a glorious tea was spread for them. At any other time Paul's delight would have been boundless, but to-night he was so listless and distracted that Mrs. Anketell grew quite anxious about him, and his depression depressed her.

"Is there anything troubling you, dear?" she asked. "Can't you tell me what it is and trust me?"