ame out to meet the
young curate from the neighbouring parish of Breckonton. Upper or Over
Breckonton was still more dependent on my father than my native
Breckonside. There were other ways of getting supplies at Breckonside,
at least for a time. But Over Breckonton was wholly dependent on my
father's vans, carrier's carts, and general delivery of goods.

They shook hands with some heartiness. For though my father had a
standing quarrel with both vicars he was always on the best of terms
with the curates.

"What might you want him for, Mr. Ablethorpe?"

"Oh," said Mr. Ablethorpe, "the farmers are busy with their moor hay,
you see, and I thought if Joe and I----"

"Say no more," cried my father, "you shall have him. And if he does
not work like a good 'un, you tell it to me, that's all! I see now why
the farmers of your parish call you the 'Hayfork' Minister!"

"Oh, they call me that, do they?" said the curate, not at all
disguising his pleasure in the nickname, "well, I'm no great preacher,
you know. So it is as well to make oneself of use some way!"

"That's right--that's right," cried my father, "I hope you will put a
little of that teaching into the lazy bones of my young whelp. Joe!
Ah, Joe, you villain! Come here! Don't skulk!"

As my father did really know where I was (and also because I was an
obedient boy with a reverence for the fifth commandment of the
Decalogue), I came immediately, greatly to the disappointment of the
dogs, who thought themselves in for a good long romp. I found Mr.
Ablethorpe explaining to my father that we were just going to call in
at Brom Common Farm, to give Caleb Fergusson a lift with his hay--that
Caleb was an old man, and would be the better of the assistance of two
pairs of sturdy arms. Furthermore, it would keep Joe in training for
the next cricket match--Breckonton and District _v._ Upper Dene
Hospital it was.

"I don't know exactly how long we shall be, I tell you frankly," said
the curate. "If old Caleb has nearly finished, Joe and I may take a
walk before coming home. It won't do to have him getting slack, lying
about the yard like this."

"That's all right," said my father, who was aching to get back to his
books, and wished nothing better than to have me taken off his hands,
"all serene! Don't you fret, Mr. Ablethorpe. Joe will be in good
keeping along of you. I wish I could say as much of him always. He is
a wandering, good-for-nothing wretch!"