CHAPTER V.
When Cradock and Clayton were ten years old, they witnessed a scene which puzzled them, and dwelt long in their boyish memories. Job Hogstaff was going to Ringwood, and they followed him down the passage towards the entrance–hall, emphatically repeating the commissions with which they had charged him. Old Job loved them as if they were his grandsons, and would do his utmost to please them, but they could not trust his memory, or even his capacity.
“Now, Job”, cried little Cradock, pulling at his coat–lappet, “itʼs no good pretending that you know all, when you wonʼt even stop to listen. Iʼm sure youʼll go and make some great mistake, as you did last Tuesday. Mind you tell Mr. Stride itʼs for Master Cradock Nowell, and they must be sure to give you a good one, or I shall send it back. Now just tell me what I have told you. I ought to have written it down, but I wasnʼt sure how to spell ‘groove’”.
“Why, Master Crad, Iʼm to say a long spill, very sharp at the end”.
“Sharp at the point, Job, not blunt at the end like a new black–lead pencil”.
“And whatever you do, Job, donʼt forget the catgut for my cross–bow, one size larger than last time”.
“Hold your jaw, Viley, till Iʼve quite finished; or heʼll ask for a top made of catgut”.