“Why not, my boy? It is such a fine thing. Your face shows that you are a sharp boy. Why do you go on living in a hole, and poaching, and picking, and stealing?”
“Plaize, sir, I never steals nothin’, without it is somethin’ as don’t belong to me.”
“That may be. But why should you steal even that? Shall I go in, and steal your things now?”
“Oh hoo, oh hoo, oh hoo! Plaize, sir, I ha’n’t got nothin’ for ’e to steal.”
“I am not at all sure of that,” said the rector, looking at the hermit’s hole longingly; “a thief’s den is often as good as the bank. Now, who taught you how to make this snare? I thought I knew them all pretty well; but this wire has a dodge quite new to me. Who taught you, you young scamp, this moment?”
“Plaize, sir, I can’t tell ’e, sir. Nobody taught me, as I knows on.”
“You young liar, you couldn’t teach yourself. What you mean is, that you don’t choose to tell me. Know, I must, and know I will, if I have to thrash it out of you.” He had seized him now by his gorgeous waistcoat, and held the strong horsewhip over his back. “Now, will you tell, or will you not?”
“I ’ont, I ’ont. If ’e kills me, I ’ont,” the boy cried, wriggling vainly, and with great tears of anticipation rolling down his sun-burnt cheeks.
The parson admired the pluck of the boy, knowing his own great strength of course, and feeling that if he began to smite, the swing of his arm would increase his own wrath, and carry him perhaps beyond reason. Therefore he offered him one chance more. “Will you tell, sir, or will you not?”
“I ’ont tell; that I ’ont,” screamed Bonny; and at the word the lash descended. But only once, for the smiter in a moment was made aware of a dusty rush, a sharp roar of wrath, and great teeth flashing under mighty jaws. And perhaps he would never have walked again if he had not most suddenly wheeled his pony, and just escaped a tremendous snap, well aimed at his comely and gaitered calf.