look over it into the long, narrow road.

Tommy Taft was not particularly fond of work; in other words, he was not
a great worker. On this occasion, however, the promise of an extra
shilling being uppermost in his mind, he plied his energies with more
than wonted skill. He was disposed to be meditative as well, and so
deeply that he chanced not to perceive an aged personage who, for
perhaps five and twenty minutes, had been cautiously scrutinizing him
from across the wall.

It was a most extraordinary fit of sneezing--nothing more nor less--that
first attracted the attention of Tommy Taft, and prompted him to look
up. And what did he see? Only a weather-beaten face, shaded by a ragged
straw hat out of which peeped locks of grizzled gray hair. The owner
leaned somewhat heavily against the wall.

Tommy Taft was not amazed; but if he had not already become accustomed
to affronts and ill-shapen visages, he might have been awed into
silence. He merely paused, with his right foot on the shoulder of the
spade share, and peered at the stranger. To the best of his knowledge,
he had never seen him before. On a former time, however, he had chanced
to see his own face in a mirror and, odd as it may seem, he now remarked
to himself a striking resemblance between the two faces,--his own and
that of the new comer. But his thoughts were quickly turned.

"I say, young man!"

"What say?" replied Tommy Taft.

"You don't happen to know a young man by the name o' Tom Taft, do you?"