"But he wasn't called after his father," said the Master, somewhat curtly, for if Jabez Tinker could be curt, curt too could the Master be, and any way, he was sovereign there except on Guardian days. "Damme, I can crow on my own dunghill," he thought, "or I'm th' poorest cock ever crowed this side of Stanedge." "Oh! I forgot, Mr. Redfearn said something about his being a bastard, a chance child--a rambling tale. I didn't mind it, I was thinking about something else. 'Twill be his mother's name?" "No, nor his mother's," said the Master. "I don't rightly know who he was called after. It had something to do with Mr. Redfearn's shepherd. But it's a long time since, and I forget. But what's the odds? There th' lad is. You can either take him or leave him, it's all a price to me, and I reckon to th' Guardians too." "When can he come?" "Next week. There'll be th' papers to make out. Th' overseers will sign th' indentire. Five pounds they've to pay, I think t'was settled." "Yes, five Pounds; but if I'd known his age and size I'd have stood out for more. But it's too late for haggling you'd send him over this day week. I'll arrange about him. Tell him to bring the cob round, Tom, and so good day to you, Master. Time's money these days, and I've wasted a whole forenoon over this job. Pinder, Pinder, it's a strange name and yet there seems a look i' the lad's eye I've seen before somewhere. My respects to Mr. Redfearn when you see him, and tell him he should be too old a farmer by this to keep his cattle till they're almost too far gone for the market." The Master smiled the official smile at a Guardian's jest; but it was no very friendly glance that followed the erect form of the Holmfirth manufacturer as he turned his good mare's head over the hills. "Tom's in for a bad time of it, I'm thinking," said the master. It was Mr. Black who conveyed the lad with a father's love from the Workhouse to Holmfirth. And the lad went with a heart light enough, though on his cheek the tears were wet he had shed at parting from the faithful Jack. He had solemnly made over to the lamenting Workhouse drudge his boyish treasures,--the lark, that obstinately refused to sing, the lop-eared rabbit, and the hedgehog he had rescued from the clogs and sticks of a posse of village urchins--captive not of bow and spear, but of fist and toe. Moll o' Stuarts, too, had been to bid him farewell, and, as a parting gift, had bestowed on him a child's caul.