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He was Frank Darvell no longer; he belonged to no one; the wide world was his home; Barney and the white mice his only friends and companions. In the wandering life that followed, Frank had excellent opportunities for studying the character of his new comrade, and it did not take long to discover two prominent points in it. Barney was a liar and a thief.
"You may," she replied, "but I don't stir till I see the lad. If so be," she added, "you can go to sleep with an easy mind while the lad's still out, you'd better do it." Her husband scratched his head thoughtfully, but made no answer; then Mrs Darvell rose and stood in front of him, shaking a menacing finger. "Frank Darvell," she said slowly and solemnly, "you've bin leatherin' that lad.
"Well, I'm proper tired," she said, bumping her basket down with a sigh of relief. "That Whiteleaf Hill do spend one so after a day's marketing." Then glancing at the muddy boots on the hearth: "Bin ploughin'?" Mr Darvell nodded again, and looked inquiringly at his wife's basket. Answering this silent question she said: "I sold 'em fairly well. Mrs Reuben got more; but hers was fatter."
One was that of Darvell, broad-shouldered and heavily built, but the other one was small and slender, and had rough yellow hair. Mrs Darvell was a woman of decisive action as well as of a quick tongue. One look was enough for her.
Don't deny it, for I know it." Mr Darvell did not attempt to deny it. He only shuffled his feet a little. "An now," continued his wife with increasing vehemence, "you've druv him at last to run away; don't deny it." "He ain't run away," muttered Mr Darvell. "He ain't got pluck enough to do that. He's a coward, that's what he is."
'Darvell, he said, as he turned towards the hall steps, 'you must see these men off the premises. The less you say to them the better. 'We'll only just tell him all about it as we goes along comfortable, said Adamson.
Mr Darvell smoked on in silence, and his wife busied herself in preparing supper, consisting of cold bacon, bread, and tea without milk; it was not until they had both been seated at the meal for a little while that she set down her cup suddenly and exclaimed: "Why, whatever's got our Frank? Isn't he home yet?"
Mrs Darvell set her basket down on the ground when she reached this point, and drew a long breath; the worst of the walk was over now, and she thought with relief how good it would be to pull off her boots, and hoped that Frank had not forgotten to have the kettle on for tea.
But something had occurred to make his father revert to the condition of a certain tenant, whose holding on the property was by no means satisfactory either to himself or to his landlord. "You know, sir," said the son, "I told you last year that Darvell would have to go." "Where's he to go to?" "He'll go to the workhouse if he stays here.
Mr Darvell's mouth was still occupied, not with his pipe, but with a thick hunk of bread, on which was laid an almost equally thick piece of fat bacon. Gazing at his wife across this barrier he nodded again, and presently murmured somewhat indistinctly: "Ah, he came home with me." "Then," repeated Mrs Darvell, fixing her eyes sharply on him, "where is the lad?" Mr Darvell avoided his wife's gaze.
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