The unshaded village street was hot and dusty, and the unclouded August sun was blazing down upon it; but Ishmael did not mind that, as he stood devouring with his eyes the unattainable books.

While he was thus occupied, a small, open, one-horse carriage drove up and stopped before the shop door.  The gentleman who had driven it alighted and handed out a lady and a little girl in deep mourning.  The lady and the little girl passed immediately into the shop.  And oh! how Ishmael envied them!  They were perhaps going to buy some of those beautiful books!

The gentleman paused with the reins in his hands, and looked up and down the bare street, as if in search of some person.  At last, in withdrawing his eyes, they fell upon Ishmael, and he called him.

The boy hastened to his side.

“My lad, do you think you can hold my horse?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Well, and can you lead him out of the road to that stream there under the trees, and let him drink and rest?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, go on, then, and mind and watch the carriage well, while we are in the shop; because, you see, there are tempting parcels in it.”

“Yes, sir,” again said the boy.

The gentleman gave him the reins and followed the ladies into the shop.  And Ishmael led the horse off to the grove stream, a place much frequented by visitors at Baymouth to rest and water their horses.

The thirsty horse had drank his fill, and the kind boy was engaged in rubbing him down with cool, fresh dock leaves, when a voice near the carriage attracted Ishmael’s attention.

“Oh, cricky, Ben! if here isn’t old Middy’s pony-chaise standing all alone, and full of good nuggs he’s been a buying for that tea-party!  Come, let’s have our share beforehand.”

Ishmael who was partly concealed by his stooping position behind the horse, now raised his head, and saw two young gentlemen of about twelve and fourteen years of age, whom he recognized as the sons of Commodore Burghe, by having seen them often at church in the commodore’s pew.

“Oh, I say, Ben, here’s a hamper chock full of oranges and figs and nuts and raisins and things! let’s get at them,” said the elder boy, who had climbed upon one wheel and was looking into the carriage.

“Oh, no, Alf! don’t meddle with them!  Mr. Middleton would be mad,” replied the younger.

“Who cares if he is?  Who’s afraid?  Not I!” exclaimed Alf, tearing off the top of the hamper and helping himself.

All this passed in the instant that Ishmael was rising up.

“You must not touch those things, young gentlemen!  You must not, indeed!  Put those figs back again, Master Alfred,” he said.

“Who the blazes are you, pray?” inquired Master Alfred contemptously, as he coolly proceeded to fill his pockets.

“I am Ishmael Worth, and I am set here to watch this horse and carriage, and I mean to do it!  Put those figs back again, Master Alfred.”