Poor Tim gazed unutterably, and his heart went on in such a way that even Mrs Frog's attention was arrested. Looking up, she asked if he was took bad.

"Oh! dear no. By no means," said Tim, quickly.

"You're tremblin' so," she returned, "an' it ain't cold--but your colour's all right. I suppose it's the natur' o' you Canadians. But only to think that my Bobby," she added, quitting her leaning-post, and again seizing her son, "that my Bobby should 'ave grow'd up, an' his poor mother knowed nothink about it! I can't believe my eyes--it ain't like Bobby a bit, yet some'ow I _know_ it's 'im! Why, you've grow'd into a gentleman, you 'ave."

"And you have grown into a flatterer," said Bob, with a laugh. "But come, mother, this way; I've brought the wagon for you. Look after the luggage, Tim--Oh! I forgot. This is Tim, Hetty--Tim Lumpy. You remember, you used to see us playing together when we were city Arabs."

Hetty looked at Tim, and, remembering Bobby's strong love for jesting, did not believe him. She smiled, however, and bowed to the tall good-looking youth, who seemed unaccountably shy and confused as he went off to look after the luggage.

"Here is the wagon; come along," said Bob, leading his mother out of the station.

"The waggin, boy; I don't see no waggin."

"Why, there, with the pair of bay horses."

"You don't mean the carridge by the fence, do you?"

"Well, yes, only we call them wagons here."

"An' you calls the 'osses _bay_ 'osses, do you?"

"Well now, _I_ would call 'em beautiful 'osses, but I suppose bay means the same thing here. You've got strange ways in Canada."

"Yes, mother, and pleasant ways too, as I hope you shall find out ere long. Get in, now. Take care! Now then, Hetty--come, Matty. How difficult to believe that such a strapping young thing can be the squalling Matty I left in London!"

Matty laughed as she got in, by way of reply, for she did not yet quite believe in her big brother.

"Do you drive, Tim; I'll stay inside," said Bob.

In another moment the spanking bays were whirling the wagon over the road to Brankly Farm at the rate of ten miles an hour.

Need it be said that the amiable Merryboys did not fail of their duty on that occasion? That Hetty and Matty took violently to brown-eyed Martha at first sight, having heard all about her from Bob long ago--as she of them; that Mrs Merryboy was, we may say, one glowing beam of hospitality; that Mrs Frog was, so to speak, one blazing personification of amazement, which threatened to become chronic--there was so much that was contrary to previous experience and she was so slow to take it in; that Mr Merryboy became noisier than ever, and that, what between his stick and his legs, to say nothing of his voice, he managed to create in one day hubbub enough to last ten families for a fortnight; that the domestics and the dogs were sympathetically joyful; that even the kitten gave unmistakeable evidences of unusual hilarity-- though some attributed the effect to surrept.i.tiously-obtained cream; and, finally, that old granny became something like a Chinese image in the matter of nodding and gazing and smirking and wrinkling, so that there seemed some danger of her terminating her career in a gush of universal philanthropy--need all this be said, we ask? We think not; therefore we won't say it.

But it was not till Bob Frog got his mother all to himself, under the trees, near the waterfall, down by the river that drove the still unmended saw-mill, that they had real and satisfactory communion. It would have been interesting to have listened to these two--with memories and sympathies and feelings towards the Saviour of sinners so closely intertwined, yet with knowledge and intellectual powers in many respects so far apart. But we may not intrude too closely.

Towards the end of their walk, Bob touched on a subject which had been uppermost in the minds of both all the time, but from which they had shrunk equally, the one being afraid to ask, the other disinclined to tell.

"Mother," said Bob, at last, "what about father?"

"Ah! Bobby," replied Mrs Frog, beginning to weep, gently, "I know'd ye would come to that--you was always so fond of 'im, an' he was so fond o'

you too, indeed--"

"I know it, mother," interrupted Bob, "but have you never heard of him?"

"Never. I might 'ave, p'r'aps, if he'd bin took an' tried under his own name, but you know he had so many aliases, an' the old 'ouse we used to live in we was obliged to quit, so p'r'aps he tried to find us and couldn't."

"May G.o.d help him--dear father!" said the son in a low sad voice.

"I'd never 'ave left 'im, Bobby, if he 'adn't left me. You know that.

An' if I thought he was alive and know'd w'ere he was, I'd go back to 'im yet, but--"

The subject was dropped here, for the new mill came suddenly into view, and Bob was glad to draw his mother's attention to it.

"See, we were mending that just before we got the news you were so near us. Come, I'll show it to you. Tim Lumpy and I made it all by ourselves, and I think you'll call it a first-cla.s.s article. By the way, how came you to travel first-cla.s.s?"

"Oh! that's all along of Sir Richard Brandon. He's sitch a liberal gentleman, an' said that as it was by his advice we were goin' to Canada, he would pay our expenses; and he's so grand that he never remembered there was any other cla.s.s but first, when he took the tickets, an' when he was show'd what he'd done he laughed an' said he wouldn't alter it, an' we must go all the way first-cla.s.s. He's a strange man, but a good 'un!"

By this time they had reached the platform of the damaged saw-mill, and Bob pointed out, with elaborate care, the details of the mill in all its minute particulars, commenting specially on the fact that most of the telling improvements on it were due to the fertile brain and inventive genius of Tim Lumpy. He also explained the different kinds of saws--the ripping saw, and the cross-cut saw, and the circular saw, and the eccentric saw--just as if his mother were an embryo mill-wright, for he _felt_ that she took a deep interest in it all, and Mrs Frog listened with the profound attention of a civil engineer, and remarked on everything with such comments as--oh! indeed! ah! well now! ain't it wonderful? amazin'! an' you made it all too! Oh! Bobby!--and other more or less appropriate phrases.

On quitting the mill to return to the house they saw a couple of figures walking down another avenue, so absorbed in conversation that they did not at first observe Bob and his mother, or take note of the fact that Matty, being a bouncing girl, had gone after b.u.t.terflies or some such child-alluring insects.

It was Tim Lumpy and Hetty Frog.

And no wonder that they were absorbed, for was not their conversation on subjects of the profoundest interest to both?--George Yard, Whitechapel, Commercial Street, Spitalfields, and the Sailor's Home, and the Rests, and all the other agencies for rescuing poor souls in monstrous London, and the teachers and school companions whom they had known there and never could forget! No wonder, we say, that these two were absorbed while comparing notes, and still less wonder that they were even more deeply absorbed when they got upon the theme of Bobby Frog--so much loved, nay, almost worshipped, by both.

At last they observed Mrs Frog's scarlet shawl--which was very conspicuous--and her son, and tried to look unconscious, and wondered with quite needless surprise where Matty could have gone to.

Bobby Frog, being a sharp youth, noted these things, but made no comment to any one, for the air of Canada had, somehow, invested this waif with wonderful delicacy of feeling.

Although Bob and his mother left off talking of Ned Frog somewhat abruptly, as well as sorrowfully, it does not follow that we are bound to do the same. On the contrary, we now ask the reader to leave Brankly Farm rather abruptly, and return to London for the purpose of paying Ned a visit.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

A STRANGE VISIT AND ITS RESULTS.

Edward Frog, bird-fancier, pugilist, etcetera, (and the etcetera represents an unknown quant.i.ty), has changed somewhat like the rest, for a few years have thinned the short-cropped though once curly locks above his knotted forehead, besides sprinkling them with grey. But in other respects he has not fallen off--nay he has rather improved, owing to the peculiar system of diet and discipline and regularity of life to which, during these years, he has been subjected.

When Ned returned from what we may style his outing, he went straight to the old court with something like a feeling of anxiety in his heart, but found the old home deserted and the old door, which still bore deep marks of his knuckle, on the upper panels and his boots on the lower, was padlocked. He inquired for Mrs Frog, but was told she had left the place long ago,--and no one knew where she had gone.

With a heavy heart Ned turned from the door and sauntered away, friendless and homeless. He thought of making further inquiries about his family, but at the corner of the street smelt the old shop that had swallowed up so much of his earnings.

"If I'd on'y put it all in the savin's bank," he said bitterly, stopping in front of the gin-palace, "I'd 'ave bin well off to-day."

An old comrade turned the corner at that moment.

"What! Ned Frog!" he cried, seizing his hand and shaking it with genuine goodwill. "Well, this _is_ good luck. Come along, old boy!"

It was pleasant to the desolate man to be thus recognised. He went along like an ox to the slaughter, though, unlike the ox, he knew well what he was going to.

He was "treated." He drank beer. Other old friends came in. He drank gin. If good resolves had been coming up in his mind earlier in the day he forgot them now. If better feelings had been struggling for the mastery, he crushed them now. He got drunk. He became disorderly. He went into High Street, Whitechapel, with a view to do damage to somebody. He succeeded. He tumbled over a barrow, and damaged his own shins. He encountered Number 666 soon after, and, through his influence, pa.s.sed the night in a police cell.

After this Ned gave up all thought of searching for his wife and family.

"Better let 'em alone," he growled to himself on being discharged from the police-office with a caution.

But, as we have said or hinted elsewhere, Ned was a man of iron will.