And now this car served a useful purpose and Mr. Churchouse, in some fear and trembling, ventured a first ride. Estelle accompanied him and together they drove through the pleasant lands where Dorset meets Devon, to Knapp Farm under Knapp Copse, midway between Colyton and Ottery St. Mary, on a streamlet tributary of the Sid.
Mr. Churchouse was amazed and bewildered at this new experience; Estelle, who had already enjoyed some long rides, supported him, lulled his anxieties and saw that he kept warm.
Soon they sighted the ridge which gave Knapp its name, and presently met Abel, who knew that they were coming. He stood on the tumuli at the top of the knoll and awaited them with interest. His master, from first enthusiasms, now spoke indifferently of him, declared him an average boy, and cared not whether they took him, or left him. As for Abel himself, he slighted both Estelle and Mr. Churchouse at first, and appeared for a time quite oblivious to their approaches. He was only interested in the car, which stood drawn up in an open shed at the side of the farmyard. He concentrated here, desired the company of the driver alone, and could with difficulty be drawn away to listen to the travellers and declare his own ambitions.
He was, however, not sorry to see Estelle, and when, presently, they lured him away from the motor, he talked to them. He bragged about his achievement in running away and finding work; but he was not satisfied with the work itself.
“It was only to see if I could live in the world on my own,” he said, “and now I know I can. Nobody’s got any hold on me now, because if you can earn your food and clothes, you’re free of everybody. I don’t tell them here, but I could work twice as hard and do twice as much if it was worth while; only it isn’t.”
“If you get wages, you ought to earn them,” said Estelle.
“I do,” he explained. “I get a shilling a day and my grub, and I earn all that. But, of course, I’m not going to be a farmer. I’m just learning about the land—then I’m going. Nobody’s clever here. But I like taking it easy and being my own master.”
“You oughtn’t to take it easy at your time of life, Abel,” declared Estelle. “You oughtn’t to leave school yet, and I very much hope you’ll go back.”
“Never,” he said. “I couldn’t stop there after I knew he was paying for it. Or anywhere else. I’m not going to thank him for anything.”
“But you stand in the light of your own usefulness,” she explained. “The thing is for a boy to do all in his power to make himself a useful man, and by coming here and doing ploughboy’s work, when you might be learning and increasing your own value in the world, you are being an idiot, Abel. If you let your father educate you, then, in the future, you can pay him back splendidly and with interest for all he has done for you. There’s no obligation then—simply a fair bargain.”