Tom looked into the cowshed—one of the cows had shown ailing signs that day, but she seemed well enough now, with her large head lolling against the stall, her eyes soft and untroubled in the brown glow of his lantern. He would not see the calf which had caused him so much half-proud anxiety; he wondered what would become of them both if it should be born on one of Father’s “bad nights.” Then he went into the stable, where the three farm-horses—the sorrel, the brown, and the bay—stood stamping and chumbling, with the cold miasmic air like a mist above the straw. Then he went back into the yard—saw that the hen-house door was fast, that old Nimrod the watch-dog had his bone and his water and a good length of chain. It was very cold, there was a faint smell of rime on the motionless air, and the stars were like spluttering candles in the frost-black sky. These April days and nights were unaccountable tricky, he told himself. That noon the very heart of the manure-heap had melted in the sun, and now it was hardening again—his boot hardly sank into the stuff as he trod it with his heel. Some of it ought to be carted to-morrow and put round the apple-trees.... Harry was very late. He would go into the corn-chamber and do some accounts. He was clumsy with his figures, and they kept him there twisting and scratching his head till nearly ten o’clock, when he heard a footfall, would-be stealthy, on the stones. He rose quickly and ran round the yard to the backdoor just as a shadow melted up against it. “Here—you!” cried Tom surlily, for he was tired and muddled with his sums—“doan’t you think to go slithering in quiet lik that, you good-fur-naun.” “I’ll come in when I like,” grumbled Harry. “You aun’t maaster here.” “Well, I’m the bigger chap, anyways, so mind your manners. Where’ve you bin?” “Only down to Puddledock.” “Puddledock aun’t sich a valiant plaace as you shud spend half a day there. You’ve bin up to no good, I reckon. A fine chap you’ll be to mind Worge when I’m gone.” “You’re going, then?” Harry’s voice was anxious, for he was fond of Tom, though he resented his interference with his liberties. “Yes—I’m going ... join up in a fortnight. Come in, Harry; I want to spik to you.” “I want my supper.” “You’ll have your supper, though you doan’t desarve it, you spannelling beggar. I’ll come and sit along of you; we must talk business, you and I.” “About Worge?” “Yes.”