Jim Batley chose to stay. He was a tall, thin, obstinate fellow, of eleven, and meant to wait and speak to David. Given to following his own way whenever he could, in spite of his father and mother, it occurred to him that perhaps David might be persuaded to take Timberdale first and the train after. He amused himself with the dead leaves while he waited. But it seemed that David took a long time dressing. The truck stood at the door; Jim stamped and whistled, and shied a few stones at the topmost article, which was Mrs. Hill's potato saucepan. Presently Hill came out and began to unload, beginning with the saucepan. "Where's Davy?" demanded Jim, from a safe distance. "Ain't he ready yet?" "Now if you don't get off about your business I'll make you go," was Hill's answer, keeping his back turned to the boy. "You haven't got nothing to stop here for." "I'm stopping to speak to Davy." "Davy was away out o' here afore daylight and took the first train to Worcester. He's a'most there by now." Young boys are not clever reasoners; but certain contradictory odds and ends passed through Jim's disappointed mind. For one thing, he had seen Hill unlock the door. "I don't think he's gone out yet. I see his boots." "What boots?" asked Hill, putting a bandbox inside the door. "Davy's. I see 'em through the skylight; they stood near the mattress." "Them was a pair of my boots as I carried here last night. I tell ye Davvy's _gone_: can't ye believe? He won't be home for some days neither, for his grandmother's safe to keep him." Jim Batley went off slowly on his way to Timberdale: there was nothing to stay for, Davy being gone. Happening to turn round, he caught Hill looking after him, and saw his face for the first time. It had turned white as death. The contrast was very remarkable, for it was usually of a deep red. "Well, I never!" cried Jim, halting in surprise. "Mayhap the cold have took him! Serve him right." When Hill had got all the things inside he locked himself in, probably not to be disturbed while he arranged them. Mrs. Hill had been waiting breakfast ever so long when she heard the truck coming back. "Whatever's become of David?" she began. "I expected him home at once." "David has started for Worcester," said Hill. "Started for Worcester? Without his breakfast?" "Now don't you worry yourself about petty things," returned Hill, crustily. "You wanted him to go, and he's gone. He won't starve; let him alone for that." The notion assumed by Mrs. Hill was, that her husband had started the boy off from the cottage direct to the train. She felt thoroughly vexed. "He had all his old clothes on, Hill. I would not have had him go to Worcester in that plight for any money. You might have let the child come home for a bit of breakfast--and to dress himself. There was not so much as a brush and comb at the place, to make his hair tidy."