A certain boy leaning up against me would not allow my elbow room, and struck me very sadly in the stomach part, though his own was full of my parliament.  And this I felt so unkindly, that I smote him straightway in the face without tarrying to consider it, or weighing the question duly.  Upon this he put his head down, and presented it so vehemently at the middle of my waistcoat, that for a minute or more my breath seemed dropped, as it were, from my pockets, and my life seemed to stop from great want of ease.  Before I came to myself again, it had been settled for us that we should move to the “Ironing-box,” as the triangle of turf is called where the two causeways coming from the school-porch and the hall-porch meet, and our fights are mainly celebrated; only we must wait until the convoy of horses had passed, and then make a ring by candlelight, and the other boys would like it.  But suddenly there came round the post where the letters of our founder are, not from the way of Taunton but from the side of Lowman bridge, a very small string of horses, only two indeed (counting for one the pony), and a red-faced man on the bigger nag.

“Plaise ye, worshipful masters,” he said, being feared of the gateway, “carn ’e tull whur our Jan Ridd be?”

“Hyur a be, ees fai, Jan Ridd,” answered a sharp little chap, making game of John Fry’s language.

“Zhow un up, then,” says John Fry poking his whip through the bars at us; “Zhow un up, and putt un aowt.”

The other little chaps pointed at me, and some began to hallo; but I knew what I was about.

“Oh, John, John,” I cried, “what’s the use of your coming now, and Peggy over the moors, too, and it so cruel cold for her?  The holidays don’t begin till Wednesday fortnight, John.  To think of your not knowing that!”

John Fry leaned forward in the saddle, and turned his eyes away from me; and then there was a noise in his throat like a snail crawling on a window-pane.

“Oh, us knaws that wull enough, Maister Jan; reckon every Oare-man knaw that, without go to skoo-ull, like you doth.  Your moother have kept arl the apples up, and old Betty toorned the black puddens, and none dare set trap for a blagbird.  Arl for thee, lad; every bit of it now for thee!”

He checked himself suddenly, and frightened me.  I knew that John Fry’s way so well.

“And father, and father—­oh, how is father?” I pushed the boys right and left as I said it.  “John, is father up in town!  He always used to come for me, and leave nobody else to do it.”

“Vayther’ll be at the crooked post, tother zide o’ telling-house.* Her coodn’t lave ‘ouze by raison of the Chirstmas bakkon comin’ on, and zome o’ the cider welted.”

     * The “telling-houses” on the moor are rude cots where the
     shepherds meet to “tell” their sheep at the end of the
     pasturing season.