“Sam seed him busy about the hedge last evening, and this morning he bein’ fust in the ground went to look at the place, where he found this big leveret ketched in a wire as dead as a door nail.” “Here he comes,” said Patty, looking through the window. The farmer gave a sort of a grunt of displeasure, and a tall, light-haired boy ran into the room. He was full of life and spirits, and as audacious in his manner. He wore no coat or smock, but a waistcoat with long sleeves and a pair of fustian trousers bound below the knee with leather straps to prevent them from dragging in the mire. His boots were of the usual clodhopping description, in weight about four pounds, and studded with nails like the door of a prison. Although his costume was not particularly becoming, there was something in his voice and manner which showed that he was of a different race to the other labourers on the farm. Nevertheless there was something in his countenance that betokened an absence of moral principle; a restlessness, and an expression of cunning seemed to pervade it. There was something in his grey eyes which to a physiognomist would have afforded food for speculation and inquiry. Mr. Jamblin sprang forward and seized the youngster by the collar, at which he did not appear to be surprised. “You audacious circumventing young wagabond,” shouted out the farmer; “I’ve been a waitin’ for you, my pretty manakin. I’ll teach you to put metal collars round my hares’ necks, you rascal.” “Will you, master?” “Yes, I will. What have you to say for yourself?” “What have I say? Well, if you will listen I’ll tell you, sir.” “Go on, and look sharp about it, then.” “Aint hares wild animals, the same as rats, foxes, and such like?” said the boy. “When I made a new sort of trap and caught the rats for you, which nobody else could do, didn’t you praise me and acknowledge it was a clever contrivance?” “You young rascal!” cried Jamblin. “Don’t ’ee think to shield yourself by your book larning. Wild animals, indeed. I’ll flay ’ee alive, you viper.” The farmer seized hold of a stout stick which was lying on the table. “There was a farmer lagged the other day for killing a boy,” said the lad, in an insolent tone. “So don’t lay it on too strong, master, for fear of your own precious life.” “You insolent ruffian!” exclaimed Jamblin. “Hang me if I ever met with your like, and hope I never shall for the matter o’ that.” He rained a heavy shower of blows upon the boy’s back and shoulders, which he bore without flinching or even uttering a cry. The farmer was surprised. “He’s a hardened callous rascal that no mortal man can mek anything on, and that be the solemn truth.” “He won’t do it again――I’m sure he won’t, father,” pleaded the girl. “Won’t he? I’ll wager he will. Good words or bad blows are wasted on such as he.” Then, turning to Alf, Jamblin said――