So once more seizing Digby by the shoulder he hauled him off, without any vehement opposition, towards a comfortable looking farmhouse, a few fields away from where they then were. The farmer was better than his word, and bread and cheese and cake, and honey and preserves, and fresh milk and cider, and beer and gooseberry wine, all, as the farmer’s wife assured them, made by herself at home, were placed in abundance before them. They did justice to the provisions, but to their credit they drank very slightly of the fermented liquors. The farmer and his wife pressed them to partake of everything set before them. Really it was, as the good dame observed, a pleasant sight to see the twenty boys, all in health and spirits, their cheeks glowing with the exercise they had been taking, sitting round the large well-scrubbed oak table in the farmhouse kitchen, and the huge cheeses and equally large loaves of pure home-made bread, not sickly white, but with an honest brown tinge, showing that all the best part of the flour was there, and no admixture of alum or bone-dust. Then how the beer frothed, and smelt of honest malt and hops. The profusion of honest food was pleasant, and still pleasanter the hearty good-will with which it was given. The dame wanted to do some rashers of bacon and to poach them some eggs, but they all declined her kindness, assuring her that if they eat more they could never get through the work they had before them.
“Remember, my boys, I shall be main glad to see any of you whenever you comes this way, and can give me a look in,” said Farmer Growler, as they rose to continue their run, and Digby was offering to shake hands with him.
The farmer took his hand and wrung it heartily.
“I wasn’t inclined to think over well of the youngsters of Grangewood there; but since I have seen you, I tell you frankly, I likes some on you very much. Good-bye, good-bye.”
“We might have said the same of our new friend,” observed Digby, as they got beyond hearing. “After having known that honest, good-natured fellow, rough as his outside seemed, I shall be inclined to think better of some of the farmers I know, whom I’ve always fancied to be rather sulky, bearish fellows. We won’t forget to pay him a visit another day, and it will be pleasant if we can think of something to carry to him or his wife. But we must make up for lost time, and go ahead faster than before, or we shall not get back till dark.”
Away they all went; their meal—for neither was it luncheon, dinner, nor tea—in no way impeded their progress. On they ran faster than ever; nothing stopped them. At last they came out near a village. Right through it they went, much to the astonishment of the inhabitants, who hurried out of their cottages, to see the young gentlemen running like mad down the street. A meadow was on one side. Over a paling and a widish ditch Digby jumped, and along the meadow he ran, knowing full well that a broadish stream was to be found at the bottom of it. By this time a number of spectators had collected.
“It must be done,” thought Digby; “follow who can.”
He planted his pole in the middle of the stream and cleared it with a bound—shouts from the villagers showing their admiration of the feat.
Most of the rest went over in good style. Poor little Notty very nearly tumbled in, but generous Ranger went over first and stood by to catch him; and on they all went once more in line, and were soon out of sight of the village and its vociferous inhabitants, as Newland called them. Other streams were in their course. They came to some swampy ground, and Digby very nearly let them into a quagmire, where they would all have stuck, when he espied some stones to his left, and landed on a causeway which led across it. That stream-leaping was a fine exercise for the nerves and strength, and agility too, and required no little practice. A hill now appeared before them. They breasted it boldly, as some of them did years afterwards other hills when crowned with fierce enemies, showering down bullets and round-shot on their heads. The parish church, with a lofty and beautiful tower, stood there. It had been all along Digby’s aim to reach it. The view from the summit he knew was beautiful—no more extensive prospect was to be found in all the country round. The tower was undergoing repair, so the door was open. In went Digby, and up the steps he ran—round and round and round he went, as he ascended the well-worn circular stair—the voices of his followers sounding in various tones behind him. Near the top was a window—from it hung a stout rope, which his quick eye saw was well secured. He reached the top, where there was a platform large enough, for the tower was square, to contain all the party. Soon they all assembled there. If the view from the hill was sufficient to inspirit them, this was still more calculated to do so. It did, and such a cheer was raised as perhaps had not been heard from the old tower top for many a year. There is good hope for England when her boys can cheer right lustily and honestly, as did Digby Heathcote and his friends. For some time they stood there drinking in unconsciously the beauty of the scene, not troubling themselves with details however, and imbibing, too, greater love than ever for their native land. Suddenly Digby recollected that he ought to be moving.
“On, on,” he shouted, and down the steps he dashed—not altogether, though. He stopped at the belfry and sprang to the window, from which hung the rope he had observed. Heaving down his pole, he grasped the rope, and, to the surprise and almost horror of his companions, he threw his legs over and down he glided; not very rapidly, though, but quietly, as if it was a matter of every-day occurrence, looking up and trying out, “Let those only follow who are certain they can do it. I forgive those who cannot.”