He was very much vexed, and revenged himself by vexing the children in all sorts of ways. They would have told their mother, and asked her to send Bill away, only she had a great many anxieties just then, for their old grandmother was very ill, and they did not like to make a fuss about any thing that would trouble her. So Bill staid on, and nobody found out what a bad, ill-natured, lazy boy he was. But one day the mother was sent for suddenly, not knowing when she should be able to come home again. She was very sad, and so were the children, for they loved their grandmother--and as the carriage drove off they all stood crying round the front-door for ever so long. The servants even cried too--all but Bill. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," said he. "What a jolly time I shall have! I'll do nothing all day long. Those troublesome children sha'n't have Jess to ride; I'll keep her in the stable, and then she won't get dirty, and I shall have no trouble in cleaning her. Hurrah! what fun!" He put his hands in his pockets, and sat whistling the best part of the afternoon. The children had been so unhappy, that for that day they quite forgot Jess; but next morning, after lessons were over, they came begging for a ride. "You can't get one. The stable-door's locked and I've lost the key." (He had it in his pocket all the time.) "How is poor Jess to get her dinner?" cried a thoughtful little girl. "Oh, how hungry she will be!" And the child was quite in distress, as were the two other girls. But the boys were more angry than sorry. "It was very stupid of you, Bill, to lose the key. Look about and find it, or else break open the door." "I won't," said Bill; "I dare say the key will turn up before night, and if it doesn't, who cares? You get riding enough and too much. I'll not bother myself about it, or Jess either." And Bill sauntered away. He was a big fellow, and the little lads were rather afraid of him. But as he walked, he could not keep his hand out of his trowsers-pocket, where the key felt growing heavier and heavier, till he expected it every minute to tumble through and come out at his boots--convicting him before all the children of having told a lie. Nobody was in the habit of telling lies to them, so they never suspected him, but went innocently searching about for the key--Bill all the while clutching it fast. But every time he touched it, he felt his fingers pinched, as if there was a cockroach in his pocket--or little lobster--or something, anyhow, that had claws. At last, fairly frightened, he made an excuse to go into the cow-shed, took the key out of his pocket and looked at it, and finally hid it in a corner of the manger, among the hay.