him too how much Alfred had been distressed about the pony, and
though he would not shew her that he cared, it made him go straight
up-stairs, and with a somewhat sheepish face, say, 'I say, Alf, the
pony's all right. I only gave him one cut to get him off. He'd
never go at all if he didn't know his master.'

'He'd go fast enough for my voice,' said Alfred.

'You know I'd never go for to beat him,' continued Harold; 'but it
was enough to vex a chap--wasn't it?--to have Mother coming and
lugging one off from the carrying, and away from the supper and all.
Women always grudge one a bit of fun!'

'Mother never grudged us cricket, nor nothing in reason,' said
Alfred. 'Lucky you that could make hay at all! And what made you so
taken up with that new boy that Ellen runs on against, and will have
it he's a convict?'

'A convict! if Ellen says that again!' cried Harold; 'no more a
convict than she is.'

'What is he, then? Where does he come from?'

'His name is Paul Blackthorn,' said Harold; 'and he's the queerest
chap I ever came across. Why, he knew no more what to do with a
prong than the farmer's old sow till I shewed him.'

'But where did he come from?' repeated Alfred.

'He walked all the way from Piggot's turnpike yesterday,' said