Chapter II: Dick Runs an Errand

THERE was no small amount of excitement next morning when the three younger children became aware that a dog had gained admittance to the cottage on the previous evening. Cries of delight rang from their lips the instant they set eyes on him, and words of pity followed as they beheld his thin condition, sore neck, and bandaged paw. The twins, Willie and Joe, aged four, were inclined to be afraid of him at first; but after watching Dick and Molly stroke his rough coat, and receive kisses in return from his long pink tongue, they grew braver, and caressed him also.

"I wonder what he's called?" said bright-eyed, seven-year-old Molly.

She had addressed the new-comer by a dozen or more names owned by the various dogs with whom she was acquainted, but not one appeared to be the right one.

"It isn't Rough, or Ranger, or Spring, or anything I can think of. If we can't find out what it is, we shall have to think of something quite new," clapping her hands excitedly.

"But, my dear," broke in the widow at this point, "I really don't think we can keep him. The gentlefolks in the village will be sure to say we ain't justified in doing so; and a big dog is a great expense."

"O mother, we can't turn him to doors!" Dick, on the brink of tears, pleaded. "What would become of him, lame as he is? There are lots and lots of boys in the parish who'd stone him directly they saw he couldn't run away from them. Do let us keep him for a little while—at any rate, until his foot is healed."

Widow Wilkins shrugged her thin shoulders and sighed. At length she consented to keep the dog, assuring herself that before long some one would be sure to take a fancy to him and offer him a home.

"What shall we call our dog then?" asked Molly, with quite an important air of ownership.

"Supposing we call him Stranger," said Dick. "Don't you think that would do?"

"Yes! Yes!" his little sister and the twins agreed in a breath.

Within a week the dog learned to respond to his new name. Within a fortnight, he learned to take the children to school morning and afternoon, and fetch them when their lesson-hours were over. And though his injured paw caused him to limp a good deal at first, it soon got well. Then he was able to scamper and bound along as gracefully as if nothing had been amiss with it.

He was a sweet-tempered creature, and quickly made friends with the people in the village, who constantly gave him scraps to eat.

"Isn't his coat looking beautiful, mother?" Dick said one day to Mrs. Wilkins, as the much-dreaded winter drew near.

"Ah, it is, my dear!" was her reply. "It's because he's so well fed—that's the reason. Do you know, Dick, I almost envy that dog the bits folks throw to him, sometimes, when you children are on short rations. But there, I won't complain! P'raps I shall get some more washing or sewing work to do before long. I'm sure I don't mind how hard I slave, if only I can manage to get necessaries for you children."

"But, mother, you can't—you mustn't work harder than you do now!" cried the little boy, in tones strangely earnest for his years. "Cheer up, though! We won't go meeting trouble half-way," he went on, "'cos there'll be my shilling a week that I'm to get for cleaning boots at the rectory before long. I saw the rector's wife this morning, and promised to start work in a fortnight's time—that is, if you were willing."

"Willing! Why, yes, 'twill be a fine help to us, my dear," responded the widow more cheerfully. "You're right, Dick; we won't look upon the darkest side. We'll do our best, and face things as they come."

But although Dick and his hard-working mother tried their best to be brave during the weeks that followed, anxiety met them at every turn. The winter settled in, and work grew scarce. The children's appetites increased with the cold weather, and rent-days came round all too quickly.

"There's scarcely a handful of coal left in the out-house, Dick, and I can't spare money to buy more this week," said Mrs. Wilkins one cold morning to her little son, by now her right hand in almost every respect.

"That doesn't matter," cried courageous Dick; "I'll pick up a big bundle of sticks in the woods during dinner-time. And when I come out of school this afternoon, I'll get another lot."

And Dick Wilkins was as good as his word. He collected a huge bundle of fuel when he came out of school at twelve, and when lessons were over in the afternoon, he hastened to the woods again to get another lot together.

The weather was chill, indeed; but he paid no heed to the fact, so busy was he in selecting and collecting his sticks. He had barely succeeded in binding up his second load when, to his surprise, he turned and found a gentleman within a foot of him—one whom he at once recognized as the artist who lodged at Farmer Smerdon's.

"Don't be frightened, my boy," said the new-comer, seeing the child start and colour slightly. "You are doing no harm, I am sure, and it is a pity these branches should be left to rot in the woods when they would make such capital fires. But now to come at once to business! Will you run an errand for me? If so, I'll guard your fagot the while."

"Yes, sir," was Dick's quick reply.

A sensation of delight came over him as he thought of the coppers that he was in view of earning. He would take them home to his mother as a pleasant surprise. Oh, how pleased, how thankful she would be!

"Well, the fact is, I have left a small box of water-colour paints on the seat in the church porch," the artist lost no time in explaining; "and as I have walked a great many miles already this afternoon, I feel too tired to go back for it. On the other hand, if the village children should come upon my property, I fear they may do it damage."

"I'll fetch it straightway, sir. Please, is that all? Isn't there brushes as well?"

"No; I have my brushes with me. It is only the box I have forgotten."

"Right, sir; I'll be back again in no time."

And needing no further encouragement, Dick darted off as fast as the broken soles of his worn-out boots would carry him.

How he did his errand in so short a time, he never knew, but he reached the church in less than five minutes, though it was situated at a considerable distance from the woods, and possessing himself of the little paint-box, he fastened its cover securely that none of its contents might fall out, and sped back with all haste to the spot where the artist, true to his promise, was guarding his bundle of sticks.

"What! Returned already!" exclaimed the gratified gentleman, as Dick, hot and panting, made his reappearance. "You have been very quick. I should not have thought it possible for any one to do the distance in so short a time," taking the box from the boy's trembling hands and looking scrutinizingly into his eager countenance.

It was an honest, good-looking face, but withal pinched and thin. There was, too, a certain wistfulness in the child's blue eyes that hinted at poverty—perhaps privation. The artist was by no means rich, but a kindly impulse prompted him to reward the runner of his errand more generously than he had at first intended. "Here, lad," said he, "take this for having obliged me." And he put a piece of money into the boy's hand.

"Please, sir," Dick gazed with misty eyes at the coin—"did you mean to give me a shilling?"

"To be sure I did," was the reply; and the donor afterwards told himself that the expression of mingled wonderment and delight on the little face was worth three times the amount. "Take it and welcome, my lad," said he. "Now I will bid you good-day."

"Good-day, sir; and—and thank you ever so!" burst from Dick's quivering lips; after which he looked at the coin a second time, and murmured with delight, "Won't mother be surprised and glad! Fancy a shilling!—a whole shilling! Why, that's as much as I get at the rectory for cleaning boots in a week!"

And then, raising the piece of money to his lips, he actually kissed it, not for its own sake, as a miser might have done, but for the sake of the much-needed necessaries that he meant it to buy.