"I don't know yet," answered Georgy Porgy with a shake of his curls.
"Good again!" exclaimed Bellew, "neither do I."
"Though I've been thinking of Africa," continued his diminutive companion, turning the remain of the bread and jam over and over thoughtfully.
"Africa!" repeated Bellew, staring, "that's quite a goodish step from here."
"Yes," sighed Georgy Porgy, "but, you see, there's gold there, oh, lots of it! they dig it out of the ground with shovels, you know. Old Adam told me all 'bout it; an' it's gold I'm looking for, you see, I'm trying to find a fortune."
"I—er—beg your pardon—?" said Bellew.
"Money, you know," explained Georgy Porgy with a patient sigh, "pounds, an' shillings, an' bank-notes—in a sack if I can get them."
"And what does such a very small Georgy Porgy want so much money for?"
"Well, it's for my Auntie, you know, so she won't have to sell her house, an' go away from Dapplemere. She was telling me, last night, when I was in bed—she always comes to tuck me up, you know, an' she told me she was 'fraid we'd have to sell Dapplemere an' go to live somewhere else. So I asked why, an' she said ''cause she hadn't any money,' an' 'Oh Georgy!' she said, 'oh Georgy, if we could only find enough money to pay off the—the—'"
"Mortgage?" suggested Bellew, at a venture.
"Yes—that's it, but how did you know?"
"Never mind how, go on with your tale, Georgy Porgy."
"'If—we could only find enough money, or somebody would leave us a fortune,' she said—an' she was crying too, 'cause I felt a tear fall on me, you know. So this morning I got up, awful' early, an' made myself a bundle on a stick—like Dick Whittington had when he left home, an' I started off to find a fortune."
"I see," nodded Bellew.
"But I haven't found anything—yet," said Georgy Porgy, with a long sigh, "I s'pose money takes a lot of looking for, doesn't it?"
"Sometimes," Bellew answered. "And do you live alone with your Auntie then, Georgy Porgy?"
"Yes;—most boys live with their mothers, but that's where I'm different, I don't need one 'cause I've got my Auntie Anthea."
"Anthea!" repeated Bellew, thoughtfully. Hereupon they fell silent, Bellew watching the smoke curl up from his pipe into the warm, still air, and Georgy Porgy watching him with very thoughtful eyes, and a somewhat troubled brow, as if turning over some weighty matter in his mind; at last, he spoke:
"Please," said he, with a sudden diffidence, "where do you live?"
"Live," repeated Bellew, smiling, "under my hat—here, there, and everywhere, which means—nowhere in particular."
"But I—I mean—where is your home?"
"My home," said Bellew, exhaling a great cloud of smoke, "my home lies beyond the 'bounding billow."
"That sounds an awful' long way off."
"It is an awful' long way off."
"An' where do you sleep while—while you're here?"
"Anywhere they'll let me. To-night I shall sleep at some inn, I suppose, if I can find one, if not—under a hedge, or hay-rick."
"Oh!—haven't you got any home of your own, then—here?"
"No."
"And—you're not going home just yet—I mean across the 'bounding billow?'"
"Not yet."
"Then—please—" the small boy's voice was suddenly tremulous and eager, and he laid a little, grimy hand upon Bellew's sleeve, "please—if it isn't too much trouble—would you mind coming with me—to—to help me to find the fortune?—you see, you are so very big, an'—Oh!—will you please?"
George Bellew sat up suddenly, and smiled; Bellew's smile was, at all times, wonderfully pleasant to see, at least, the boy thought so.
"Georgy Porgy," said he, "you can just bet your small life, I will—and there's my hand on it, old chap." Bellew's lips were solemn now, but all the best of his smile seemed, somehow, to have got into his gray eyes. So the big hand clasped the small one, and as they looked at each other, there sprang up a certain understanding that was to be an enduring bond between them.
"I think," said Bellew, as he lay, and puffed at his pipe again, "I think I'll call you Porges, it's shorter, easier, and I think, altogether apt; I'll be Big Porges, and you shall be Small Porges—what do you say?"
"Yes, it's lots better than Georgy Porgy," nodded the boy. And so Small Porges he became, thenceforth. "But," said he, after a thoughtful pause, "I think, if you don't mind, I'd rather call you——Uncle Porges. You see, Dick Bennet—the black-smith's boy, has three uncles an' I've only got a single aunt—so, if you don't mind—"
"Uncle Porges it shall be, now and for ever, Amen!" murmured Bellew.
"An' when d'you s'pose we'd better start?" enquired Small Porges, beginning to re-tie his bundle.
"Start where, nephew?"
"To find the fortune."
"Hum!" said Bellew.
"If we could manage to find some—even if it was only a very little, it would cheer her up so."
"To be sure it would," said Bellew, and, sitting up, he pitched loaf, cheese, and clasp-knife back into the knap-sack, fastened it, slung it upon his shoulders, and rising, took up his stick.
"Come on, my Porges," said he, "and, whatever you do—keep your 'weather eye' on your uncle."
"Where do you s'pose we'd better look first?" enquired Small Porges, eagerly.
"Why, first, I think we'd better find your Auntie Anthea."
"But—" began Porges, his face falling.
"But me no buts, my Porges," smiled Bellew, laying his hand upon his new-found nephew's shoulder, "but me no buts, boy, and, as I said before—just keep your eye on your uncle."
CHAPTER V
How Bellew came to Arcadia
So, they set out together, Big Porges and Small Porges, walking side by side over sun-kissed field and meadow, slowly and thoughtfully, to be sure, for Bellew disliked hurry; often pausing to listen to the music of running waters, or to stare away across the purple valley, for the sun was getting low. And, ever as they went, they talked to one another whole-heartedly as good friends should.
And, from the boy's eager lips, Bellew heard much of "Auntie Anthea," and learned, little by little, something of the brave fight she had made, lonely and unaided, and burdened with ancient debt, to make the farm of Dapplemere pay. Likewise Small Porges spoke learnedly of the condition of the markets, and of the distressing fall in prices in regard to hay, and wheat.
"Old Adam—he's our man, you know, he says that farming isn't what it was in his young days, 'specially if you happen to be a woman, like my Auntie Anthea, an' he told me yesterday that if he were Auntie he'd give up trying, an' take Mr. Cassilis at his word."
"Cassilis, ah!—And who is Mr. Cassilis?"
"He lives at 'Brampton Court'—a great, big house 'bout a mile from Dapplemere; an' he's always asking my Auntie to marry him, but 'course she won't you know."
"Why not?"
"Well, I think it's 'cause