"The baby ain't far off," said Jonas. "I suppose we can't leave it here. This is a pretty awkward affair. Tell'y what, Iver. You bide by the dead man and grope about for that there baby, and I'll go down to the houses and get help." "Oh, Bideabout! I dursn't." "Dursn't what?" "Not be left alone--here--in the Punch-Bowl with a dead man." "You're a fool," said Jonas, "a dead man can't hurt nobody, and them rascals as killed him are for sure a long way off by this time. Look here, Iver, you timid 'un, you find that squalling brat and take it up. I don't mind a brass fardin' being here wi' a corpse so long as I can have my pipe, and that I'll light. But I can't stand the child as well. You find that and carry it down, and get the Boxalls, or someone to take it in. Tell 'em there's a murdered man here and I'm by the body, and want to get home and can't till someone comes and helps to carry it away. Cut along and be sharp. I'd ha' given a shilling this hadn't happened. It may cost us a deal o' trouble and inconvenience--still--here it is--and--you pick about and find that creature squealin' its bellows out." There was callousness unusual and repulsive in so young a man. It jarred with the feelings of the frightened and nervous boy. Tears of alarm and pity were in his eyes. He felt about in the heather till he reached the infant. It was lying under a bush. He took the poor little creature up, and the babe, as though content to feel itself with strong arms under it, ceased to cry. "What shall I do, Bideabout?" "Do--cut along and raise the Boxalls and the Snellings, and bid them come and remove the body, and get someone to take the child. Confound the whole concern. I wish they'd done it elsewhere--or I hadn't come on it. But it's like my ill-luck." CHAPTER IV. WITHOUT A ROOF. The boy, Iver, trudged along carrying the infant in his arms. The little face was against his cheek, and the warm breath played over it. Whenever the child cried, he spoke, and his voice reassured the babe, and it was quiet again. He walked cautiously, as the path was narrow and the night dark. A false step might send him rolling down the steep slope with his burden. Iver had often been to the squatters' quarters, and he knew very well his direction; but he was now agitated and alarmed. After a while he reached bushes and could see trees standing black against the sky, and caught the twinkling of lights. Before him was a cottage, and a little garden in front. He opened a wicket and went up to the door and rapped. A call of "Who is there?" in response. The boy raised the latch and entered. A red peat fire was burning on the hearth, and a man sat by it. A woman was engaged at needlework by the light of a tallow candle. "Tom Rocliffe!" exclaimed the boy. "There's been a murder. A sailor--he's dead on the path--there's Bideabout Kink standing by and wants you all to come and help and--here's the baby." The man sprang to his feet. "A murder! Who's dead?"