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more.”

      “What else shall I teach you?”

      “Hey?”

      “Come, I’ll show you over the farm.”

      “Honour bright? No larks!”

      “Yes; no larks!”

      “Say honour.”

      “Honour.”

      Young Whitechapel had not very much faith in his guide, however; but he saw more country wonders that day than ever he could have dreamt of; while his strange remarks kept Archie continually laughing.

      Next day the two boys went bird-nesting, and really Archie was very mischievous. He showed him a hoody-crow’s nest, which he represented as a green plover’s or lapwing’s; and a blackbird’s nest in a furze-bush, which he told Harry was a magpie’s; and so on, and so forth, till at last he got tired of the cheeky Cockney, and sent him off on a mile walk to a cairn of stones, on which he told him crows sometimes sat and “might have a nest.”

      Then Archie threw himself on the moss, took out a book, and began to read. He was just beginning to repent of his conduct to Harry Brown, and meant to go up to him like a man when he returned, and crave his forgiveness.

      But somehow, when Harry came back he had so long a face, that wicked Archie burst out laughing, and forgot all about his good resolve.

      “What shall I teach you next?” said Archie.

      “Draw it mild, Johnnie; it’s ’Arry’s turn. It’s the boy’s turn to teach you summut. Shall we ’ave it hout now wi’ the raw uns? Bunches o’ fives I means. Hey?”

      “I really don’t understand you.”

      “Ha! ha! ha! I knowed yer was a green ’un, Johnnie. Can yer fight? Hey? ’Cause I’m spoilin’ for a row.”

      And Harry Brown threw off his jacket, and began to dance about in terribly knowing attitudes.

      “You had better put on your clothes again,” said Archie. “Fight you? Why I could fling you over the fishpond.”

      “Ah! I dessay; but flingin’ ain’t fightin’, Johnnie. Come, there’s no getting hout of it. It ain’t the first young haristocrat I’ve frightened; an’ now you’re afraid.”

      That was enough for Archie. And the next moment the lads were at it.

      But Archie had met his match; he went down a dozen times. He remained down the last time.

      “It is wonderful,” he said. “I quite admire you. But I’ve had enough; I’m beaten.”

      “Spoken like a plucked ’un. Haven’t swallowed yer teeth, hey?”

      “No; but I’ll have a horrid black-eye.”

      “Raw beef, my boy; raw beef.”

      “Well; I confess I’ve caught a tartar.”

      “An’ I caught a crab yesterday. Wot about your eider duck? My heye! Johnnie, I ain’t been able to sit down conweniently since. I say, Johnnie?”

      “Well.”

      “Friends, hey?”

      “All right.”

      Then the two shook hands, and young Whitechapel said if Archie would buy two pairs of gloves he would show him how it was done. So Archie did, and became an apt pupil in the noble art of self-defence; which may be used at times, but never abused.

      However, Archie Broadbent never forgot that lesson in the wood.

      Chapter Six

      “Johnnie’s got the Grit in him.”

      On the day of his fight with young Harry in the wood, Archie returned home to find both his father and Mr Walton in the drawing-room alone. His father caught the lad by the arm. “Been tumbling again off that pony of yours?”

      “No, father, worse. I’m sure I’ve done wrong.” He then told them all about the practical joking, and the finale.

      “Well,” said the Squire, “there is only one verdict. What do you say, Walton?”

      “Serve him right!”

      “Oh, I know that,” said Archie; “but isn’t it lowering our name to keep such company?”

      “It isn’t raising our name, nor growing fresh laurels either, for you to play practical jokes on this poor London lad. But as to being in his company, Archie, you may have to be in worse yet. But listen! I want my son to behave as a gentleman, even in low company. Remember that boy, and despise no one, whatever be his rank in life. Now, go and beg your mother’s and sister’s forgiveness for having to appear before them with a black-eye.”

      “Archie!” his father called after him, as he was leaving the room.

      “Yes, dad?”

      “How long do you think it will be before you get into another scrape?”

      “I couldn’t say for certain, father. I’m sure I don’t want to get into any. They just seem to come.”

      “There’s no doubt about one thing, Mr Broadbent,” said the tutor smiling, when Archie had left.

      “And that is?”

      “He’s what everybody says he is, a chip of the old block. Headstrong, and all that; doesn’t look before he leaps.”

      “Don’t I, Walton?”

      “Squire, I’m not going to flatter you. You know you don’t.”

      “Well, my worthy secretary,” said the Squire, “I’m glad you speak so plainly. I can always come to you for advice when – ”

      “When you want to,” said Walton, laughing. “All right, mind you do. I’m proud to be your factor, as well as tutor to your boys. Now what about that Chillingham bull? You won’t turn him into the west field?”

      “Why not? The field is well fenced. All our picturesque beasts are there. He is only a show animal, and he is really only a baby.”

      “True, the bull is not much more than a baby, but – ”

      The baby in question was the gift of a noble friend to Squire Broadbent; and so beautiful and picturesque did he consider him, that he would have permitted him to roam about the lawns, if there did not exist the considerable probability that he would play battledore and shuttlecock with the visitors, and perhaps toss old Kate herself over the garden wall.

      So he was relegated to the west field. This really was a park to all appearance. A few pet cattle grazed in it, a flock of sheep, and a little herd of deer. They all lived amicably together, and sought shelter under the same spreading trees from the summer’s sun. The cattle were often changed, so were the sheep, but the deer were as much fixtures as the trees themselves.

      The changing of sheep or cattle meant fine fun for Archie. He would be there in all his glory, doing the work that was properly that of herdsmen and collie dogs. There really was not a great deal of need for collies when Archie was there, mounted on his wild Shetland pony, his darling “Eider Duck” Scallowa; and it was admittedly a fine sight to see the pair of them – they seemed made for each other – feathering away across the field, heading and turning the drove. At such times he would be armed with a long whip, and occasionally a beast more rampageous than the rest would separate itself from the herd, and, with tail erect and head down, dash madly over the grass. This would be just the test for Archie’s skill that he longed for. Away he would go at a glorious gallop; sometimes riding neck and neck with the runaway and plying the whip, at other times getting round and well ahead across the beast’s bows with shout and yell, but taking care to manoeuvre so as to steer clear of an ugly rush.

      In this field always dwelt one particular sheep. It had, like the pony, been a birthday present, and, like the pony, it hailed from the Ultima Thule of the British North. If ever there was a demon sheep in existence, surely this was the identical quadruped. Tall and lank, and daft-looking, it possessed

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