Jack’s nerve was completely gone, and he could hardly raise a trot.  He used to laugh much about the terrors that he suffered during the remainder of his journey.  First of all he trod on a young rabbit, and the shrill squeak that came sent his heart to his mouth; then, just as he neared his home, the shepherd’s donkey took the fancy to bray with vigour, and Jack thought for one moment that another enemy was upon him.  Presently he saw the light in his own window, and he knew that he was in honest regions once more.  The old people were much amazed when their son came in, bare-headed, wet, and covered with red rust from the friendly chain, but they were glad to see him in any plight.  The moor is in much better order now-a-days, for the muggers are all driven away north to Yetholm and Wooler.  A stately policeman traverses the bank once every night, and no one is ever molested.  The first policeman was stabbed from behind, and flung over the cliff, but there has been no mischief since that time, and the district is very quiet indeed.

HOB’S TOMMY.

The moor was blazing in the sun.  Bright gorse flamed above the pale green grass, and little pools flashed white rays up to the sky.  Hob’s Tommy stepped out of doors, and took a long look round.  He was not impressed by the riot of colour that spread around him; he looked over the pulsing floor of the sea, and thought, “It will be a fine night for the trouting.”

Tommy was a large man, who seemed to shake the ground as he trod.  His face was devoid of speculation, and his dull blue eyes looked from under heavy and unamiable brows.  His hair was matted, and his mode of dressing his big limbs showed that he was careless of opinion.  He was called Hob’s Tommy because the villagers had a fancy for regarding sons as the personal property of the father, and thus a man called Thomas, who happened to be the son of a man called John, never received his surname during his whole life, excepting on the occasions of his baptism and marriage.  He was known as Jack’s Tom.  If he, in his turn, happened to have a son whom he chose to name Henry, the youth was known as Jack’s Tom’s Harry.  Our friend Tommy’s father had been called Hob, and hence the name of the ill-tempered lout who was gazing on the unsullied sea.  Tommy watched the green water breaking over the brown sand, and far out at sea he saw the thick haze still brooding low.  He knew the evening would be fine, and he knew that he would have a good basket for next day’s market.  He put his hands in his pockets, and strolled away from the unsavoury neighbourhood of the Fishers’ Row on to the glistening moor.  His eyes were fixed on the ground, and into his mind entered no thought saving calculations about money and drink.  Any stranger who had met him walking over the thyme, with his fierce face bent downward, would have gained a bad notion of the local population.  A sudden jangle of bells filled the air, and the ringers went