"Carrying Mr Manners' tackle," said the lad.

"Oh! then you, Josh. Take the lantern for a bit."

"Not at all," said the Vicar, stoutly. "That little bit of duty I do cling to, and I am not going to surrender the light to any one. How are you feeling, Mr Manners?"

"Fairly, thank you," was the response; "but I am thankful that the journey is not twice as far."

"Well, yes," said Mr Willows, dryly. "We can do with it as short as it is. Have a rest now, sir?"

"No, no," said the artist; "not for a bit."

It was a slow march home indeed, and later frequent rests had to be indulged in.

"I say," said Will to Josh, "it's a pretty holiday, isn't it! Here, you take these things. Catch hold."

"All right."

The march was resumed.

"Drinkwater is a trump," said Will at last.

"Rather a surly one," said Josh. "Why can't he be amiable?"

"I don't know."

"Whatever he says has got a sort of a sting in it."

"Hush! He'll hear."

"I wish he had."

"Look here, my man," said Mr Carlile at last, "have a rest now for a bit. I will go on the other side of Mr Manners."

"No, no, sir; I can manage, thank ye," said Drinkwater. "I am a strong one, you know, and it comes easy to such as me."

"So I see. But even the strong need rest, you know."

The man shook his head.

"I don't need no rest," he said. "I have worked hard all my life, and it won't hurt me to do a bit more."

"Hark at that," said Josh. "Old grumpus!"

"Better leave him alone," said Willows. "He will have his own way.

Don't interfere."

"Oh, very well," said the Vicar. "Want a rest, Mr Manners?"

"No, no. We had better get on. What time is it?"

"Midnight--just after," said the mill-owner.

"Your wife will be anxious about you, Drinkwater," said the artist.

"Not she," was the response. "My wife knows me."

"Old stupid!" said Will. "As if we didn't know that! How could she help knowing him when she's his wife?"

"I wonder your father puts up with him as he does," said Josh.

"Yes; I often wonder that," said Will. "But then old Boil O does know such a lot. Look at to-night, for instance. Where should we have been without him?"

"That's why he thinks he can be disagreeable, I suppose," said Josh.

The cottage was reached at last, and evidently Mrs Drinkwater had been waiting anxiously all the time. She came hurriedly down the garden path to meet the travellers.

"Oh, Mr Manners," she said, "you have hurt, yourself!"

"A trifle," he answered. "But you will know how to treat an injured ankle, Mrs Drinkwater."

"I think I do, sir," said the woman, brightly, as she preceded the little party into the cottage, and hastily put a cushion in the dark brown Windsor chair which stood sentry-like by the fire.

Into this the artist was helped.

"Thank you, gentlemen," he said, with a smile, as he gazed at his rescuers. "Thank you, boys, and you, Drinkwater--very sincerely, one and all. I am grateful. Astonishing how helpless an accident like this makes a man. Now with a cold compress and a rest I ought soon to be all right again."

"I trust so," Mr Willows, with a smile, looking down at him; "only don't be in too much of a hurry to think you are well. It is a case for one remedy, and that is r-e-s-t. How are you going to get to bed?

Shall I remain and a.s.sist?"

"It's only up two stairs, sir," said Mrs Drinkwater, "and my man will help."

"Of course he will," said the artist. "I shall be quite all right.

Good-night, friends, and a thousand thanks. One day may I be able to do as much for you."

"I'll take good care you don't," said Willows, with a laugh; and then as they started for home he clapped Will on the shoulder. "Your artist's a splendid fellow," he said.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

DRINKWATER'S MANNERS.

"Soon be able to walk all right; eh. Mr Manners?" asked Will, who with Josh had come up to the cottage.

"Soon, my lad? Yes, I think so," said the artist, cheerily. "I was talking to Drinkwater here about painting his portrait; but he won't hear a word of it. But I have got him in my mind's eye all the same, and I shall paint him whether he likes it or not," continued Mr Manners, as he looked laughingly at the boys, and then went on dipping his brush in the colours on the palette, rubbing it round and twiddling it in the pigment, while his landlord, pipe in mouth, gazed at him rather surlily. "Wouldn't he make a fine picture? Eh?" And the artist leaned back in his chair and smiled good-humouredly first at Drinkwater and then at the boys, ending by shaking his head at his injured ankle, which was resting on another chair placed nearly in front of him.

"I don't want my portrait painted, I tell ye," said the man, gruffly.