"A w'ot?" enquired the Waggoner.
"Blighted affections, then," sighed Bellew, settling himself more comfortably in the hay.
"You aren't 'inting at—love, are ye?" enquired the Waggoner cocking a somewhat sheepish eye at him.
"I was, but, just at present," and here Bellew lowered his voice, "it is a—er—rather painful subject with me—let us, therefore, talk of something else."
"You don't mean to say as your 'eart's broke, do ye?" enquired the Waggoner in a tone of such vast surprise and disbelief, that Bellew turned, and propped himself on an indignant elbow.
"And why the deuce not?" he retorted, "my heart is no more impervious than anyone else's—confound it!"
"But," said the Waggoner, "you ain't got the look of a 'eart-broke cove, no more than Squire Cassilis—which the same I heard telling Miss Anthea as 'is 'eart were broke, no later than yesterday, at two o'clock in the arternoon, as ever was."
"Anthea!" repeated Bellew, blinking drowsily up at the sky again, "that is a very quaint name, and very pretty."
"Pretty—ah—an' so's Miss Anthea!—as a pict'er."
"Oh, really?" yawned Bellew.
"Ah!" nodded the Waggoner, "there ain't a man, in or out o' the parish, from Squire down, as don't think the very same."
But here, the Waggoner's voice tailed off into a meaningless drone that became merged with the creaking of the wheels, the plodding hoof-strokes of the horses, and Bellew fell asleep.
He was awakened by feeling himself shaken lustily, and, sitting up, saw that they had come to where a narrow lane branched off from the high road, and wound away between great trees.
"Yon's your way," nodded the Waggoner, pointing along the high road,
"Dapplemere village lies over yonder, 'bout a mile."
"Thank you very much," said Bellew, "but I don't want the village."
"No?" enquired the Waggoner, scratching his head.
"Certainly not," answered Bellew.
"Then—what do ye want?"
"Oh well, I'll just go on lying here, and see what turns up—so drive on, like the good fellow you are."
"Can't be done!" said the Waggoner.
"Why not?"
"Why, since you ax me—because I don't have to drive no farther. There be the farm-house—over the up-land yonder, you can't see it because o' the trees, but there it be."
So, Bellew sighed resignedly, and, perforce, climbed down into the road.
"What do I owe you?" he enquired.
"Owe me!" said the Waggoner, staring.
"For the ride, and the—er—very necessary exercise you afforded me."
"Lord!" cried the Waggoner with a sudden, great laugh, "you don't owe me nothin' for that—not nohow—I owe you one for a knocking of me into that ditch, back yonder, though, to be sure, I did give ye one or two good 'uns, didn't I?"
"You certainly did!" answered Bellew smiling, and he held out his hand.
"Hey!—what be this?" cried the Waggoner, staring down at the bright five-shilling piece in his palm.
"Well, I rather think it's five shillings," said Bellew. "It's big enough, heaven knows. English money is all O.K., I suppose, but it's confoundedly confusing, and rather heavy to drag around if you happen to have enough of it—"
"Ah!" nodded the Waggoner, "but then nobody never has enough of it—leastways, I never knowed nobody as had. Good-bye, sir! and thankee, and—good luck!" saying which, the Waggoner chirrupped to his horses, slipped the coin into his pocket, nodded, and the waggon creaked and rumbled up the lane.
Bellew strolled along the road, breathing an air fragrant with honey-suckle from the hedges, and full of the song of birds; pausing, now and then, to listen to the blythe carol of a sky-lark, or the rich; sweet notes of a black-bird, and feeling that it was indeed, good to be alive; so that, what with all this—the springy turf beneath his feet, and the blue expanse over-head, he began to whistle for very joy of it, until, remembering the Haunting Shadow of the Might Have Been, he checked himself, and sighed instead. Presently, turning from the road, he climbed a stile, and followed a narrow path that led away across the meadows, and, as he went, there met him a gentle wind laden with the sweet, warm scent of ripening hops, and fruit.
On he went, and on—heedless of his direction until the sun grew low, and he grew hungry; wherefore, looking about, he presently espied a nook sheltered from the sun's level rays by a steep bank where flowers bloomed, and ferns grew. Here he sat down, unslinging his knap-sack, and here it was, also, that he first encountered Small Porges.
CHAPTER IV
How Small Porges in looking for a fortune for another, found an Uncle for Himself instead
The meeting of George Bellew and Small Porges, (as he afterward came to be called), was sudden, precipitate, and wholly unexpected; and it befell on this wise:
Bellew had opened his knap-sack, had fished thence cheese, clasp-knife, and a crusty loaf of bread, and, having exerted himself so far, had fallen a thinking or a dreaming, in his characteristic attitude, i.e.:—on the flat of his back, when he was aware of a crash in the hedge above, and then, of something that hurtled past him, all arms and legs, that rolled over two or three times, and eventually brought up in a sitting posture; and, lifting a lazy head, Bellew observed that it was a boy. He was a very diminutive boy with a round head covered with coppery curls, a boy who stared at Bellew out of a pair of very round, blue eyes, while he tenderly cherished a knee, and an elbow. He had been on the brink of tears for a moment, but meeting Bellew's quizzical gaze, he manfully repressed the weakness, and, lifting the small, and somewhat weather-beaten cap that found a precarious perch at the back of his curly head, he gravely wished Bellew "Good afternoon!"
"Well met, my Lord Chesterfield!" nodded Bellew, returning the salute, "are you hurt?"
"Just a bit—on the elbow; but my name's George."
"Why—so is mine!" said Bellew.
"Though they call me 'Georgy-Porgy.'"
"Of course they do," nodded Bellew, "they used to call me the same, once upon a time—
Georgy Porgy, pudding and pie
Kissed the girls, and made them cry,
though I never did anything of the kind—one doesn't do that sort of thing when one is young—and wise, that comes later, and brings its own care, and—er—heart-break." Here Bellew sighed, and hacked a piece from the loaf with the clasp-knife. "Are you hungry, Georgy Porgy?" he enquired, glancing up at the boy who had risen, and was removing some of the soil and dust from his small person with his cap.
"Yes I am."
"Then here is bread, and cheese, and bottled stout—so fall to, good comrade."
"Thank you, but I've got a piece of bread an' jam in my bundle—"
"Bundle?"
"I dropped it as I came through the hedge, I'll get it," and as he spoke, he turned, and, climbing up the bank, presently came back with a very small bundle that dangled from the end of a very long stick, and seating himself beside Bellew, he proceeded to open it. There, sure enough, was the bread and jam in question, seemingly a little the worse for wear and tear, for Bellew observed various articles adhering to it, amongst other things, a battered penknife, and a top. These, however, were readily removed, and Georgy