“Yes, by Jove, I do,” answered Bulstrode, breaking into a complaining whine. “I don’t know why it is, Skelton, that you can always bully me; unless it’s because you’re a gentleman, and I ain’t. You dashed patricians always have us plebes under the hack--always, always. The fellows that went ahorseback were always better than those who went afootback. Sometimes, by George, I wish I had been born a gentleman!” Bulstrode’s collapse was so rapid and complete that wrath could not hold against him. Skelton merely said something about an unbridled tongue being a firebrand, and then, turning to Lewis, said: “The harvest is the black man’s holiday. Come with me, and we will see him enjoy it.” Skelton’s tone to Lewis was peculiar; although his words were cold, and his manner reserved, his voice expressed a strange fondness. Lewis felt sorry for Bulstrode, standing alone and ashamed, and after he had gone a little way by Skelton’s side he turned back and ran toward Bulstrode, holding out his book. “Won’t you have my Horace for company, Mr. Bulstrode?” he cried; “though I believe you know every word in it. But a book is company--when one can’t get a dog, that is.” “Yes, boy,” answered Bulstrode, taking one hand out of his pocket. “Old Horace and I will forget this workaday world. We have had a good many bouts in our time, Horatius Flaccus and I. The old fellow was a good judge of wine. Pity he didn’t know anything about tobacco.” He began speaking with a sigh, and ended with a grin. Skelton and Lewis turned off together, and walked along the edge of the field. The fresh, sweet scent of the newly cut wheat filled the air; the clover blossoms that grew with the wheat harboured a cloud of happy bees; over the land hung a soft haze. Lewis drank in delightedly all of the languid beauty of the scene, and so did Skelton in his quiet, controlled way. Lewis shrewdly suspected that the reason Skelton carried him off was to get him out of Bulstrode’s way, for although Bulstrode was nominally his tutor, and had plenty of opportunities for talking, he was not always as communicative as on that morning. The boy was much in awe of Skelton. He could not altogether make out his own feelings in the matter. He knew of no relationship between them, and thought he knew he was the son of Thomas Pryor, in his lifetime a tutor of Skelton’s. He called Skelton “Mr. Skelton,” and never remembered to have had a caress from him in all his life. But he never looked into Skelton’s eyes, which were precisely like his own, that he did not feel as if some strong and secret bond united them. Meanwhile, Bulstrode stood in his careless attitude, looking after them, his eyes fixed on Skelton’s straight, well set-up figure.