Our Frank | Page 6

in the wood. And then he saw what had caused the noise.
Felled trees were lying about in the round open space, and there were great heaps of curly yellow shavings, and strange-looking smooth pieces of wood carefully arranged in piles. Two little sheds stood at some distance from each other, and in one of these sat a man turning a piece of wood in a rudely fashioned lathe; as he finished it he handed it to a boy kneeling at his feet, who supplied him with more wood, and sang at his work in a loud, clear voice. And then a still more interesting object caught Frank's eye, for in the middle of the clearing there burned and crackled a lively little wood-fire, and over it, hanging from a triangle of three sticks, was a smoky black kettle. It held tea, he felt sure, and near it were some tin mugs and some nice little bundles of something tied up in spotted handkerchiefs. It all suggested agreeable preparations for a meal, and he felt he must join it at any risk.
He stood timidly at the edge of the wood observing all this for a minute, and then, as no one noticed him, he slowly advanced till he was close to the man and boy; then they looked up and saw him.
A wayworn, weary little figure he was, with a white face and mournful blue eyes; he had a shrinking, frightened air, like some hunted creature of the woods; and here and there the dry brown leaves had stuck to his clothes. Holding out his hand, and speaking in a low voice, for he felt ashamed of begging when it came to the point, he said:
"Please can yer give me a morsel of bread?"
The man, who had kind slow brown eyes and a very placid face, looked at him without speaking, and shook his head at the outstretched hand. But the boy answered with a wide-mouthed grin:
"He's hard o' hearin', my pardner is. He don't know what yer say."
He then rose, and going close to the man shouted shrilly in his ear:
"Little chap wants summat t'eat."
The man nodded.
"He's welcome to jine at tea," he said, "and he can work it out arterwards. Where dost come from?" to Frank.
Frank hesitated; then he thought of a village several miles beyond Danecross, and answered boldly, "Dinton."
"And where art goin'?"
"I'm seekin' work," said Frank.
These answers having been yelled into his ear by the boy, the man asked no further questions, though he gravely considered the stranger with his large quiet eyes. Shortly afterwards, having been joined by the mate who was sawing in the other shed, the company disposed themselves round the fire, and to Frank's great joy the meal began. And what a meal it was! Roasted potatoes, tea, thick hunches of bread, small fragments of fat bacon, all pervaded with a slight flavour of smoke--could anything be more delicious to a famished boy? Frank abandoned himself silently to the enjoyment of it; and though his companions cast interested glances at him from time to time, no one spoke. It was a very quiet assembly. All round and above them the new little green leaves danced and twinkled, and on the ground the old ones made a rich brown carpet; the blue smoke of the fire rose thinly up in the midst.
At last Frank gave a deep sigh of contentment as he put down his tin mug, and the deaf man clapped him kindly on the shoulder.
"Hast taken the edge off, little chap?" he said.
Then the two men, stretched luxuriously on the ground, filled their pipes and smoked in silence. The boy, who was about Frank's own age, but brown-faced and stoutly built, busied himself in clearing away the remains of the meal, and in carefully making up the fire with dry chips and shavings; he seemed to have caught the infection of silence from his companions, and eyed the stranger guest without speaking a word. But Frank, who was revived and cheered by his food, felt inclined for a little conversation; he was always of an inquisitive turn of mind, and he was longing to ask some questions; so as the boy passed near him he ventured to say, pointing to the neat piles of wood:
"What be yon?"
The boy stared.
"Yon?" he repeated; "why, yon be legs and rungs of cheers--that's what we make 'em fur."
"Where be the cheers?" pursued Frank.
"We send all yon down to Wickham, to the cheer factory," answered the boy; "we don't fit 'em together here."
He seated himself at Frank's side as he spoke, and poked at the fire with a long pointed stick.
"How do they get 'em down to Wickham?" asked Frank, bent on getting as much information as possible.
The boy pointed to a broad cart-track, which descended abruptly