Chapter III: Dick's Encounter with the Bully

"HULLO, Dick Wilkins, let me see what he has given you!"

The speaker was Squire Filmer's son, a well-known bully of about fifteen years of age. As his voice—always a dreaded one—fell on Dick's ears, the little boy thrust his precious shilling into his deepest pocket and turned pale.

"Here! Are you deaf?" continued Stephen, as his demand received no answer. "Let me see this instant what the gentleman has given you, or I'll make you turn out your pockets. Oh, it's no good!" he went on as the child looked anxiously around him. "There's no escape for you. And as for calling, you might shout yourself hoarse, and no one would hear. The artist is half a mile away by now; I watched him out of sight before I spoke to you."

"I wasn't going to call to him, sir. And I wasn't going to run away either. I ain't a coward," Dick found voice enough to declare.

And he spoke the truth; no thought of flight had entered his head for a moment. He had merely glanced around with the hope that Stranger might perchance have come, as he sometimes did, to seek him.

"Oh, you are not a coward, eh? Then that's all right. Now show me that piece of money!" persisted the bully, gripping Dick's shoulder so tightly that he could have shrieked with pain, had he been less brave than he was.

"Why should I show it to you, sir? 'Twas given to me. I earned it by running an errand for the artist gentleman, I did," said Dick.

"What of that? Let me see it, I tell you, or I'll give you something to remember me by. Ah!" as Dick's hand went reluctantly into his pocket. "I thought I should bring you to reason. So the gentleman gave you this, eh? A shilling! Well, it's a great deal too much money for a little boy like you to have. Think of it I—twelve pence, to be sucked away in candy!"

"No, sir. I mean to take it home to mother," little Dick explained, in his straightforward way. "We're terribly poor now that father's dead. And the children do eat such a lot this cold weather, and—and wear out so many boots."

"Come, you don't whine badly for a youngster! Poor folks are born grumblers, and a discontented set at best," stated Stephen. "Look here, Dick Wilkins, I may as well tell you at once that I am going to have that shilling of yours, whether you like it or no; and in return, I intend to give you this pretty little box that I picked up in the road yonder about half an hour ago. Exchange is no robbery, and you may think yourself lucky to have anything."

With this, he snatched Dick's shilling from his hand, and threw a small, curiously-carved match-box at the little wood-picker's feet.

"Oh, you shan't! You shan't!" cried poor Dick, losing all self-control, and throwing himself bodily upon the bigger boy. "'Tis mine," he contended, breaking into a passion of sobs and tears. "I earned it myself, and I mean to have it. Give it to me this minute, and take your match-box back. A thing like that's no good to me and mother. You're a coward and a thief."

"Now stop that noise," said Stephen. "It's no use your making a fuss; I want your shilling badly. I'm saving for new skates; and there's certain to be ice on the lake in Lord Bentford's grounds early in the new year."

"And I want to buy all sorts of things for mother and the children," sobbed the miserable and indignant Dick. "Listen to me, sir!" He ceased crying, took a step towards young Filmer, and looked fearlessly into his face. "If you don't give me back my money at once," he said, "I'll go straight to the farm and tell your father."

"So that's your little game, is it?" exclaimed the bully. "Well, it's a fortunate thing you mentioned it to me, because now I can tell you what the result of your doing it would be. I should make my mother promise me that she would never have Mrs. Wilkins to do washing or charing for her again."

"O sir, you wouldn't be so wicked, surely!" Dick broke in, in accents of alarm. "We should starve outright, I believe, without mother's Wednesday and Saturday earnings at the Manor House. And the children ain't half fed as it is!" He wound up with another flood of tears.

"Then hold your tongue, now that you know what your silence is worth," replied Stephen. "I'm sure you needn't make such a cry-baby of yourself. I haven't hurt you, and I've given you a jolly little box."

"But the box isn't any use to me," Dick argued. "Please—please give me back my shilling, Master Stephen. 'Tis dreadful to be hungry; and mother started off to work this morning without a bit of anything inside her lips, because she knew if she ate breakfast there wouldn't have been enough for the little ones."

"Don't trouble to tell lies," the squire's son said, as he turned contemptuously away. "Pick up your bundle and go home, or the bogies that hang about these woods after dark will have you."

Without another word or look, he then strode off, and was quickly out of sight. When he was visible no longer, Dick Wilkins sat down on his load of sticks, hid his face in his hands, and wept long and piteously.

Dick was a brave-hearted lad, and at last recovered himself. He determined that he would keep the treatment he had received at Stephen Filmer's hands a secret from his mother. He would be brave, and bear his trouble alone.

Up went the fagot on the child's thin shoulders. Try as he might, Dick could not whistle to-day, as he usually did, because his eyes were so full of tears that he had all he could do to see where he was going. He trudged on, fighting against his grief, and by the time he reached home, he had quite composed himself.

To his surprise, Dick found that Molly had already kindled a fire with some of the wood he had gathered earlier in the day, and had set the tea-things out upon the snow-white cloth.

"O Dick!" the little girl exclaimed, "What a long time you've been! And how red the wind has made your poor eyes look—just as if you had been crying!"

"Mother isn't back yet, I suppose," remarked the boy, taking no heed of the comment his sister had made about his appearance.

"No; I expect, though, she'll be here soon now. Come close to the fire, Dick—do! and warm yourself. The sticks you fetched this morning blaze up splendidly; they give out better heat than any we've had as yet."

"That's right!" in gratified accents. "I'll bring home some more to-morrow."

And Dick Wilkins took a stool, a sharp knife, and a basketful of sticks, and sat down making clothes' pegs in the poor but well-warmed kitchen; whilst Molly stood knitting by the firelight; and the twins and Stranger occupied a prominent position on the hearth, and watched the lifting cover of the already boiling kettle.