Will of the Mill Part 2

"Shan't run," snarled Will, between his teeth. "Here, catch hold of my hands."

He lay down on his chest, hooking his feet in amongst the tough roots of the heather.

"Come on, I tell you! Catch hold."

Obeying the stronger will, Josh made a desperate scramble, putting into it all the strength he had left, and, regardless of the angry shouts of the artist, he scrambled up sufficiently high for Will to grasp him by the wrists. He could do no more, for his feet slipped from beneath him, and he hung helpless, and at full length, completely crippling his companion, who had the full weight dependent on his own failing strength.

Encouraged by this, the breathless artist made his final rush, and succeeded in getting Josh by the ankles, holding on tightly in spite of the boy's spasmodic movement, for as he felt the strong hands grasp his legs, he uttered a yell, and began to perform motions like those of a swimming frog.

"Be quiet! Don't!" roared Will. "You'll have me down."

"Let go, you dog!" shouted the artist. "I've got him now."

"Let go yourself," cried Will, angrily. "Can't you see you are pulling me down?"

"Oh, yes, I can see. Let go yourself."

"Shan't!" growled Will, through his set teeth. "Kick out, Josh, and send him over."

"I can't!" cried Josh.

"He'd better! I'd break his neck."

"Never mind what he says, Josh. Kick! Kick hard!"

"Kick! I've got you tight. I could hold you for a wee--wee--"

He was going to say "week," but Fate proved to him that this was a slight exaggeration on his part, and instead of finis.h.i.+ng the word week he gave vent to a good loud "oh!" Tor the heather roots had suddenly given way, and the three contending parties descended the sharp slope with a sudden rush, to be brought up short amongst the stones that accompanied them in a contending heap, forming a struggling ma.s.s for a few moments, before the strongest gained the day, the artist rising first, and seating himself in triumph upon the beaten lads, to begin dragging out his handkerchief to mop his face, as he panted breathlessly--

"There, I've got you now!"

CHAPTER THREE.

THE ARTIST'S REVENGE.

It was not manly on Josh's part, but he was weak, beaten, quite in despair; the artist was a heavy man; and he had his companion Will upon him as well.

Consequently his tone was very pathetic, as he whimpered out--

"Here, you'd better let me alone!"

"Likely!" said the artist. "I wanted a model, and now you have got to sit for me."

Will didn't whimper in the least. Pain and anger had put him in what would have been a towering rage if he had not been prostrate on the ground.

"Here, you get up," he said, in a bull-dog tone.

"By and by," cried the artist, coolly, as he began to recover his breath. "I haven't made up my mind what I am going to do yet."

"If you don't get up, I'll bite," cried Will.

"You'd better! It's my turn now; I've got a long score to settle against you two fellows, and I'm going to pay you out."

As he spoke, the artist took out his pipe and tobacco pouch, and began to fill up.

"Get up!" shouted Will. "You hurt."

"So do you," said the artist, "you nasty, bony, little wretch! You feel as if you must be half-starved."

As he uttered the words there was a loud scratching, and he struck a match, lit his pipe, and began to smoke, while the boys, now feeling themselves perfectly helpless, lay waiting to see what he would do next.

"Ha!" said the artist. "I think that'll about do. You chaps are never happy unless you are playing me some trick. I've put up with it for a long time; but you know, young fellows, they say a worm will turn at last. Well, I'm a worm, and I'm going to turn, and have my turn."

"What are you going to do?" cried Will.

"Want to know?"

"Of course I do."

"You'd better leave us alone," whimpered Josh.

"Think so? Well, I will, after I've done. I'm going to wash some of the mischief out of you. I shall just tie your hands together--yes, I can easily do it now--and then drop you both into the pool."

"What?" yelled Josh. "Why, you'd drown us!"

"Hold your noise, Josh. He daren't."

"Daren't! Why not? You are only boys, and all boys are a nuisance.

You've spoilt five of my canvases, and wasted a lot of my paint, making scarecrows--at least, one of you did. But there, I won't be hard; I'll only drop in the one who did it. Who was it? Was it you, Josh Carlile?"

Josh was silent.

"Ah! I expect it was. It was he, wasn't it, Will?"

Will was silent too.

"Now I'm sure it was. Now then, Will; out with it. Tell me. It was Josh Carlile, wasn't it?"

"Shan't tell," cried Will; "and if you don't let us get up directly, I'll poke holes through all your canvases, and pitch your paints into the dam."

The artist filled his mouth as full of tobacco smoke as he could, bent down, and puffed it in a long stream full in the boy's face, making him struggle afresh violently, but all in vain.

"Well, you are a nice boy--very," said the artist. "Your father must be very proud of you. It is quite time you were washed; you've a deal of mischief in you that would be much better out. Now then, it was Josh Carlile, wasn't it?"

"I won't tell you. Pitch us in if you dare. Don't you mind, Josh.

He's only saying it to frighten us."