just ready to go, and old Dobbin was harnessed,
that Benjy broached the subject of his rheumatism again, detailing his
symptoms one by one. Poor old boy! He hoped the farmer could charm it
away as easily as he could Tom's wart, and was ready with equal faith to
put another notched stick into his other pocket, for the cure of his
own ailments. The physician shook his head, but nevertheless produced a
bottle, and handed it to Benjy, with instructions for use. "Not as 't'll
do 'ee much good--leastways I be afeard not," shading his eyes with his
hand, and looking up at them in the cart. "There's only one thing as I
knows on as'll cure old folks like you and I o' th' rheumatiz."

"Wot be that then, farmer?" inquired Benjy.

"Churchyard mould," said the old iron-gray man, with another chuckle.
And so they said their good-byes and went their ways home. Tom's wart
was gone in a fortnight, but not so Benjy's rheumatism, which laid him
by the heels more and more. And though Tom still spent many an hour with
him, as he sat on a bench in the sunshine, or by the chimney corner when
it was cold, he soon had to seek elsewhere for his regular companions.

Tom had been accustomed often to accompany his mother in her visits to
the cottages, and had thereby made acquaintance with many of the village
boys of his own age. There was Job Rudkin, son of widow Rudkin, the most
bustling woman in the parish. How she could ever have had such a stolid
boy as Job for a child must always remain a mystery. The first time
Tom went to their cottage with his mother, Job was not indoors; but he
entered soon after, and stood with both hands in his pockets, staring
at Tom. Widow Rudkin, who would have had to cross madam to get at
young Hopeful--a breach of good manners of which she was wholly
incapable--began a series of pantomime signs, which only puzzled him;
and at last, unable to contain herself longer, burst out with, "Job!
Job! where's thy cap?"

"What! bean't 'ee on ma head, mother?" replied Job, slowly extricating
one hand from a pocket, and feeling for the article in question; which
he found on his head sure enough, and left there, to his mother's horror
and Tom's great delight.

Then there was poor Jacob Dodson, the half-witted boy, who ambled about
cheerfully, undertaking messages and little helpful odds and ends for
every one, which, however, poor Jacob managed always hopelessly to
imbrangle. Everything came to pieces in his hands, and noth