“What’s to do there?” asked Tod of a man, expecting to hear that old Mrs. Parry had had a second stroke.
“Sum’at’s wrong wi’ Jacobson’s ploughboy,” was the answer. “He has just been took in there.”
“Jacobson’s ploughboy! Why, Tod, that must be Dick Mitchel.”
“And what if it is!” returned Tod, starting off again. “The youngster’s half frozen, I dare say. Let us get home. Johnny. What are you stopping for?”
By saying “half frozen” he meant nothing. Not a thought of real ill was in his mind. I went across to the house; and met Hall the ploughman coming out of it.
“Is Dick Mitchel ill, Hall?”
“He ought to be, sir; if he bain’t shamming,” returned Hall, crustily. “He have fell down five times since noon, and the last time wouldn’t get up upon his feet again nohow. Being close a-nigh the old lady’s I carried of him in.”
Hall went back to the house with me. I don’t think he much liked the boy’s looks. Dick had been put to lie on the warm brick floor before the kitchen fire, a blanket on his legs, and his head on a cushion. Mrs. Parry was ill in bed upstairs. The servant looked a stupid young country girl, seemingly born without wits.
“Have you given him anything?” I asked her.
“Please, sir, I’ve put the kettle on to bile.”