Tom had been accustomed often to accompany his mother in her visits to the cottages, and had thereby made acquaintance with many of the village boys of his own age.  There was Job Rudkin, son of widow Rudkin, the most bustling woman in the parish.  How she could ever have had such a stolid boy as Job for a child must always remain a mystery.  The first time Tom went to their cottage with his mother, Job was not indoors; but he entered soon after, and stood with both hands in his pockets, staring at Tom.  Widow Rudkin, who would have had to cross madam to get at young Hopeful—­a breach of good manners of which she was wholly incapable—­began a series of pantomime signs, which only puzzled him; and at last, unable to contain herself longer, burst out with, “Job!  Job! where’s thy cap?”

“What! bean’t ’ee on ma head, mother?” replied Job, slowly extricating one hand from a pocket, and feeling for the article in question; which he found on his head sure enough, and left there, to his mother’s horror and Tom’s great delight.

Then there was poor Jacob Dodson, the half-witted boy, who ambled about cheerfully, undertaking messages and little helpful odds and ends for every one, which, however, poor Jacob managed always hopelessly to imbrangle.  Everything came to pieces in his hands, and nothing would stop in his head.  They nicknamed him Jacob Doodle-calf.

But above all there was Harry Winburn, the quickest and best boy in the parish.  He might be a year older than Tom, but was very little bigger, and he was the Crichton of our village boys.  He could wrestle and climb and run better than all the rest, and learned all that the schoolmaster could teach him faster than that worthy at all liked.  He was a boy to be proud of, with his curly brown hair, keen gray eye, straight active figure, and little ears and hands and feet, “as fine as a lord’s,” as Charity remarked to Tom one day, talking, as usual, great nonsense.  Lords’ hands and ears and feet are just as ugly as other folk’s when they are children, as any one may convince himself if he likes to look.  Tight boots and gloves, and doing nothing with them, I allow make a difference by the time they are twenty.

Now that Benjy was laid on the shelf, and his young brothers were still under petticoat government, Tom, in search of companions, began to cultivate the village boys generally more and more.  Squire Brown, be it said, was a true-blue Tory to the backbone, and believed honestly that the powers which be were ordained of God, and that loyalty and steadfast obedience were men’s first duties.  Whether it were in consequence or in spite of his political creed, I do not mean to give an opinion, though I have one; but certain it is that he held therewith divers social principles not generally supposed to be true blue in colour.  Foremost of these, and the one which the Squire loved to propound above all others, was the belief that a man is to be valued wholly and solely for that which