“But they very often do.” “He a’n’t afraid,” observed Bill, nodding towards the cutler. “No, because he is paid high for the risk. Well, I wonder any wages will tempt a man to have such a cough as that. I suppose, however, he don’t believe where it will end, as we do. I often think, if several were to take turns, and change their work about, there would be a better chance. If ever I am a cutler, I will try that way, if I can get anybody else of the same mind.” “Not you,” said Bill; “you will do like the people before you.” “Perhaps I may, when the time comes. I may no more like to try my hand at a new thing than you. Have you asked anybody for work hereabouts?” “The flock is all sold, higher up the country,” replied Bill. “They would not let me stay on the walk when the flock was gone.” “I know that; and how you got it into your head that you might go on sleeping in the hut just the same when the place was a field as when it was a sheep-walk. They say they had to take you neck and heels to turn you out, if you would not have the roof down over your head. Why did not you bestir yourself in time, and get work from Anderson, before others stepped before you?” “There are no sheep now for anybody to keep.” “Well; if you have no mind to do anything but keep sheep, cannot you go higher up, among the graziers, and offer yourself?” “I don’t know anybody thereabouts, nor yet the walks.” “No, nor ever will, of your own accord,” thought John. “What would you be now, Bill, if you might never be a shepherd again?” Bill only rubbed his hand over the back of his head, and shifted his weight from both legs to one. Few things could daunt John’s love of talk. “What became of the poor little lamb you were nursing that night that I was on the moors? It was too tender, surely, to walk up into the hills with the rest.” “It be well if he be not dead by this time,” replied Bill. “I carried him full two miles myself, and I told ’em how to feed him and when; and, for all I could say, they minded no more when he complained—O, they don’t understand him no more than if he was a puppy-dog. When I bid him good-bye, he looked up at me, though he could scarce speak to me. He did speak, though; but he would not so much as look at the new shepherd, and if it was not for the ewe——” “What’s coming?” cried John, interrupting his companion’s new loquacity. “Let us go and see. I dare say it is somebody fresh taken up. Do you know, I went to see Chatham’s jail, the other day. Father locked doors against me because I came home so late; but I had a mind to see what sort of a place it was. I may be in it some day. I should not mind being anywhere that Chatham has been.” “You that can’t stand being flogged!” “Chatham is not going to be flogged. They say it will be ‘Death Recorded.’” “What’s that?” “Transportation.” “Why can’t they say so at once?”