Part 12 (2/2)

”Ask father.”

”No. _You_ ask him--you know I always stammer so when I ask.”

The speakers were two dark, straight-featured little boys of ten and twelve, and the above conversation was carried on in eager whispers, for they were not alone in the room.

It was rather dark, for the lamp had not been lighted yet, but they could see the back of the vicar's head as he sat in his arm-chair by the fire, and they knew from the look of it that he was absorbed in thought; he had been reading earnestly as long as it was light enough, and scarcely knew that the boys were in the room.

”_You_ ask,” repeated Roger, the elder boy, ”I always stammer so.”

Little Gabriel clasped his hands nervously, and his deep-set eyes gazed apprehensively at the back of his father's head.

”I don't like to,” he murmured.

”But you must,” urged Roger eagerly; ”think of the pigs.”

Thus encouraged, Gabriel got up and walked across the room. He thought he could ask better if he did not face his father, so he stopped just at the back of the chair and said timidly:

”Father.”

The vicar looked round in a sort of dream and saw the little knickerbockered figure standing there, with a wide-mouthed, nervous smile on its face.

”Well,” he said in an absent way.

”O please, father,” said Gabriel, ”may Roger and I have the cart and horse to-morrow?”

”Eh, my boy? Cart and horse--what for?”

”Why,” continued Gabriel hurriedly, ”to-morrow's Donnington market, and we can't sell our pigs here, and he thought--I thought--we thought, that we might sell them there.”

He gazed breathless at his father's face, and knew by its abstracted expression that the vicar's thoughts were very far away from any question of pigs--as indeed they were, for they were busy with the subject of the pamphlet he had been reading.

”Foolish boys, foolish boys,” he said, ”do as you like.”

”Then we may have it, father?”

”Do as you like, do as you like. Don't trouble, there's a good boy;”

and he turned round to the fire again without having half realised the situation.

But Roger and Gabriel realised it fully, and the next morning between five and six o'clock, while it was still all grey, and cold, and misty, they set forth triumphantly on their way to market with the pigs carefully netted over in the cart. Through the lanes, strewn thickly with the brown and yellow leaves of late autumn, up the steep chalk hill and over the bare bleak downs, the old horse pounded steadily along with the two grave little boys and their squeaking black companions.

There was not much conversation on the road, for, although Gabriel was an excitable and talkative boy, he was now so fully impressed by the importance of the undertaking that he was unusually silent, and Roger was naturally rather quiet and deliberate.

They had to drive between five and six miles to Donnington, and at last, as they wound slowly down a long hill, they saw the town and the cathedral towers lying at their feet.

They were a good deal too early, for in their excitement they had started much too soon.

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