"We can't help going round by the Travellers Twopenny, if we go the short
way, which is the back way," Durdles answers, "and we'll drop him there."

So they go on; Deputy attentive to every movement of the Stony One, until
at length nearly at their destination Durdles whistles, and
calls--"Holloa, you Deputy!"

"Widdy!" is Deputy's shrill response, standing off again.

"Catch that ha'penny. And don't let me see any more of you to-night, after
we come to the Travellers Twopenny."

"Warning!" returns Deputy, having caught the halfpenny, and appearing by
this mystic word to express his assent to the arrangement, then off he
darts.

Such was the occupation of the small boy, Deputy, night after night, week
after week, month after month, during the year when we catch a glimpse of
him, and it is reasonable to suppose that the remainder of his life, after
we lose sight of him was spent, in making a cock-shy of everything that
came in his way, whether Durdles or inanimate objects. When he had nothing
living to stone, I believe that he used to stone the dead, through the
railing of the churchyard. He found this a relishing and piquing pursuit;
firstly, because their resting place is supposed to be sacred, and,
secondly, because the tall headstones are sufficiently like themselves to
justify the delicious fancy that they are hurt when hit.

We have nothing told us to support the theory that Deputy's life ever
changed in its routine of work, and I am sure you agree with me that there
were never an odder pair than the two: Durdles, the stone-mason, and
Deputy, his servant.

Perhaps you will be in Cloisterham at some not far distant time; if so,
wander out at night in the old graveyard, when the moon is up, and in
among the cathedral crypts, if you can gain access to them; and see if
from some shadowy corner of lane or building does not start out before you
the wraith of the hideous small boy, Deputy, eluding your touch, and
chanting as he dances in front of you the old song which was the badge of
his office as the keeper of Durdles,----

_Widdy widdy wen!
I--ket--ches--'im--out--ar--ter--ten,
Widdy widdy wy!
Then--'E--don't--go--then--I--shy,
Widdy widdy Wakecock Warning!_

DOTHEBOYS HALL

[Illustration: DOTHEBOYS HALL.]

"Education.--At Mr. Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall, at the
delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, Youth are
boarded, clothed, booked, furnished