[Transcriber's Note: The author is not named and has not been located elsewhere. Dialect spelling is copied faithfully.]

THE WATER-FINDERS

By the Author of 'Two of a Trade'

LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK THOMAS NELSON AND SONS

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CONTENTS.
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[I. Willowton in Trouble]
[II. The Chapman Family]
[III. The Dowser]
[ IV. The Search for Water]
[V. Old Jimmy's Scruples]
[VI. Public Opinion on the Bridge]
[VII. Tom Chapman "Takes on" at the Well]
[VIII. A Neighbourly Action]
[IX Nurse Blunt Arrives]
[X. Another Fever Victim]
[XI. The Strike at the Well]
[XII. Back to the Work]
[XIII. Rain at Last]
[XIV. The Collapse]
[XV. Friends in Need]
[XVI An Anxious Sunday]
[XVII Geo to the Fore Again]
[XVIII The Rescue]
[XIX Geo again Surprises Himself and his Friends]
[XX Conclusion]

THE WATER-FINDERS

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CHAPTER I.

WILLOWTON IS IN TROUBLE

Willowton is a village of some seventeen thousand population, large enough for the inhabitants to talk of "going up the town" when they mean the broad main street which stands on a gentle slope leading from the railway station to the church. This street, which is paved at the sides with nice old-world, ankle-twisting cobbles, boasts of two drapers', a chemist's, a saddler's, grocer's, and bootmaker's shops. Away in the less aristocratic parts of the village are the butchers and bakers, and the miscellaneous stores so dear to the country housewives. About the middle of the town, in the very widest part, is the bridge, and close to the bridge itself is the Wild Swan public-house, or rather hotel, as it calls itself. The little stream that runs under the bridge comes along through miles of cool meadows, now golden with buttercups, for it is May. It comes through many gardens and orchards, now white with apple blossom; and when it leaves the bridge it burrows underground for some little distance, and reappears at the foot of the cottage gardens, to lose itself in pleasant meandering through more flowery meadows, till it passes out of the ken of Heigham folks, and out of our story's picture.

It was noon, and the sun was hot and the stream was low. There had been no rain for several weeks. The March winds had blown the seeds about; the wheat even drooped in the fields; April had refused her usual showers, and there was a dry, parched look everywhere while yet it was only May. Three men hung over the bridge, lazily resting their elbows on the parapet, and looking down into the water below at a large trout that was lying under a stone, waiting his opportunity to make his way further upstream to a deeper pool under the garden bank. Of these three "loafers," as the neighbours called them, one was a strong, well-built young man of one or two-and-twenty. His flushed face betrayed the fact that he had already visited the Wild Swan over the way; his great strong limbs were loosely knit; his big hands showed little signs of work; his lazy blue eyes looked as if they had never done anything more harmful or more useful than watch for trout.

His companions were of a different type. One was a discontented, surly-looking man of perhaps sixty years of age. He was reported to have been a great traveller. He certainly had been to America, to Australia, and to various ports in Europe, in his position as stoker on a merchant vessel; and he had seen a good deal of the seamy side of life, but not so much as he wished his listeners to believe, and was as bad a companion for a young fellow like George Lummis as could well be. The third man was a cripple. He came out daily on his crutches, and took up his position in the angle of the stone support, which stood out from the bridge a foot of so on to the road. He had a mild, weak face, in which a life's physical suffering was plainly to be read. He had never been of any use to anybody so far, and as far as his acquaintances knew, he had never had any desire to be so. The strongest feeling he possessed was an intense affection and admiration for the great, hulking, lazy six feet of humanity beside him.

The three men were in their own way discussing the general prosperity of the village, and abusing the district council, the parson, the doctor, the farmers, and, indeed, everybody who was at all better off or of more consequence than themselves. They were not speaking with any particular virulence, nor were they arguing their points with any warmth; they were only repeating a sort of formula they went through periodically whenever the occasion cropped up. They each knew exactly what the other would say. They had all three heard it so very many times before, and they had their answers all cut and dried, and ready for immediate use. The only variety was that sometimes they began with the parson and ended with the doctor, and sometimes they began with the doctor and ended with the parson. It was all chance, just whichever happened to go over the bridge first.

"There he goo!" they would ejaculate, often loud enough for the object of their remarks to hear, "a-drivin' in 'is carriage with a 'orse and liv'ry sarvent, all paid for out o' our club money, that's how that is. And what does he do for it, I should like yew jest te tell me?" etc., etc., etc., ad lib.

This, of course, if the passer-by happened to be the doctor; if, on the other hand, it was he vicar, it would be,—-

"There goo th' parson, pore, hard-workin' chap! Two hundred and fifty pound a year for preachin' t' us of a Sunday—an' a lot o' good that dew us! I'd just like to have him aboard our ship for a fortnight. I'd teach him t' interfere, with his imperence."

It was the "traveller" who generally originated these remarks. The cripple always made a point of assenting; he wished to be agreeable, for the traveller was open-handed as well as long-tongued, and a quid of tobacco often found its way into the cripple's pocket after a prolonged debate, in which he took so prominent and important a part.

On these occasions George Lummis seldom did more than laugh a short laugh, when he thought it incumbent on him to do so, or even lift a faint protest when his sense of justice smote him (for he had some sense of justice); and it was not so very many years ago that he was a schoolboy, and if he chose to exert his memory he could have told of many kindnesses he had received fro the late vicar and his family, and from that very doctor whom he allowed to be abused so roundly, who had pulled him through a bad attack of typhoid fever when he was a boy of sixteen. "And to very little purpose," the doctor would say to himself sometimes as he drove over the bridge and saw him loafing away the best years of his life with his good-for-nothing companions. "For his own sake I had almost better have let him die."

On this particular morning it was the vicar who passed first. He walked slowly and heavily, for he was carrying a weight. The perspiration stood in beads on his forehead, and his straw hat had got pushed back from his brow, so that the full blaze of the sun beat down on his forehead, from which the hair was beginning to recede—"slipping back" he would explain laughingly, "not falling off, forsooth!" His burden, which was in reality a big well-grown boy of fourteen, in the first stage of fever, was wrapped in a big, not overclean-looking blanket, and in his weakness he was unable to assist his bearer to carry him, and, indeed, with the best of intentions, was almost as dead a weight as if he had been in a faint.

As the vicar passed over the bridge he kept his eyes fixed straight in front of him. Neither by look nor by gesture did he ask the loungers there to help him, and no one offered to lend a hand. His strength, great as it was, was almost spent when he reached the hospital and gave over his patient to the doctor's charge, and he sat down with a sigh of relief on the wooden settle in the hall. It was cool and fresh in here, almost cold coming out of the dust and the sun. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief; the portress brought him a glass of water.

"Too hot yet, Mrs. Smith," he said. "I'll wait till I've cooled down; but I'm as thirsty as a fish!"

"And no wonder!" said the matron tartly, but not without a note of admiration in her tones; "I never heard such nonsense. Why couldn't the boy be brought in the ambulance like anybody else, I should like to know, without you having to carry him as if he was a baby! I haven't any patience with those Chapmans, that I haven't!"

"Well, nor have I—much," said the vicar reflectively. "That woman is the dirtiest of the whole row. It would be hard to beat her in the parish; but there is something about her—I don't know what it is. She never tells me lies or makes excuses; she never begs, and never complains of other people's good fortune, and is always good-tempered—bother her! She would be so much easier to influence if she had a spice of temper, wouldn't she—eh, Mrs. Smith?" with a twinkle in his big brown eyes; for Mrs. Smith had the defects of her qualities, and possessed the hasty temper that goes so often with a warm heart. "But I must be off. Let Tommy know that I'll call in and see him some time in the afternoon, and hope I shall find him in clover. No, I won't wait for the doctor; I know pretty well what he'll say. I'll be off," and the vicar tossed off his glass of water, put on his hat, this time well tilted over his eyes, and strode down the hill for the second time that morning.

His return road lay through the buttercup meadows and over the stream by a little foot-bridge into the village. He passed a long row of well-to-do, prosperous-looking cottages, with bright little gardens in front of them, and the running stream behind them. At the gate of one of these a young girl was standing shading her eyes from the sun. She made a pretty picture in her big shady hat and print blouse, short skirt, blue linen apron, her sleeves rolled up, showing a pair of nice plump arms; for Milly was washing to-day, and was not ashamed to be seen at it.

She had a paper in her hand, and was watching for the vicar. Overhead the lilacs and laburnums were fading in the drought, and the few flowers that had come to maturity were dying off before their time. So intent was the vicar on his own thoughts that he was striding past without seeing her.

"A letter, sir!" she cried out, holding it out to him over the palings.

"Oh!" Mr. Rutland took it and broke the seal.

It was a summons to attend a committee meeting of the sanitary board, now sitting at the Union—an informal meeting hastily convened owing to the pressing state of affairs, and to the somewhat unexpected reappearance of the sanitary inspector.

"Where's your grandfather?" he asked, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket.

"He's gone to toll again. Young Flower is dead."

The vicar made a gesture of dismay.

"You don't say so! I was with him most of the night. I hoped he was going to pull through. Ah, well!" But turning to Milly again, "Tell Jimmy when he comes in to let my housekeeper know I shan't be back," taking out his watch, "much before two o'clock, and I'll get some bread and cheese at the Union. She needn't think about me. Good-morning," and he went on with a nod.

"Good-morning, sir," said Milly demurely, and with a pretty little inclination of her head. Milly was too old to curtsy now, though the school children at Willowton, as indeed all the villages in East Anglia, still keep up the pretty custom of the old-world curtsey. Milly was nearly seventeen, and kept house for her old grandfather, who was parish sexton, clerk, or verger, or all three, just as it pleased him to call himself.

CHAPTER II.

THE CHAPMAN FAMILY.

The Chapmans were a large family, and every year a new little Chapman appeared upon the scene; consequently every year there was a new mouth to feed, and wages, of course, remained much the same. Tom Chapman had married his wife (a girl working in a jam factory in a neighbouring town) when he was nineteen and she was only seventeen. They had muddled along ever since. Tom was as hard-working as most of his acquaintances, which is perhaps not saying much, for they had a rooted objection to what they called a "wet jacket," and seldom worked hard enough to get uncomfortably hot; but still he was an honest, well-meaning man, and if he had a strong feelings on the subject of working over hours on special occasions, and saw no particular reason why he should put himself out to benefit his masters, why, as I said before, he was not in that respect different from his friends.

Poor Annie, his wife, was a patient, hard-working, ignorant woman. She had once been pretty, but many children and growing poverty had made her at the age of seven-and-twenty look like most women of forty. She was worn and thin, and was untidy; she was unrefined in her ways and uncouth in her speech; she was badly educated, having been idle at school, and forgotten what little her teachers managed to knock into her unwilling head; but for all this she managed to retain her husband's affection, and to keep him from the public-house. The vicar, who was a bachelor himself, often wondered why Tom Chapman was one of the steadiest young men in the parish, and why he always spent his evenings at home with "such a wife" as he had, and in such a pigsty of a house; for I grieve to say cleanliness in her household was far from being a virtue of Mrs. Chapman's. The house stood at the bottom of Gravel-pit Lane, and was the first of a row of cottages that crept up the steep little hill that led away from the vicarage into the buttercup meadows. The stream did not come anywhere near Gravel-pit Lane, and the water supply was never very good—one well having to serve eight or ten cottages with water; and this year, owing to the unprecedented dryness of the spring, the well was nearly empty. Small wonder, then, that the little Chapmans were even less well washed than usual, and that their dirty pinafores were an ever-increasing source of annoyance to the schoolmistress.

It was from this house that the vicar had carried off the patient for the little fever hospital on the side hill above the village. This fever hospital was a pet scheme of his and the doctor's. All through the dry spring they had been prophesying trouble, and had made themselves unpopular in consequence. Now, popularity is a very pleasant thing, and a very useful thing; but there are things better than popularity. Popularity is a fickle, faithless jade. She comes often unbidden and unsought, and sits down by a man's side, and while she is there he may do what he likes. He may scold people for not giving enough in church, he may forget to answer invitations, he may even lose his temper, and say all sorts of things he doesn't mean; but once Madam Popularity has left him, or even shown any signs of approaching departure, this same man may no longer ask your assistance in his charities. He may never offer you advice, or criticise your actions; he may scarcely even presume to wish you good-morning, and when he comes to see you, you imagine he comes to pry into your private affairs. If he gives your boy a penny for opening a gate for him, you are certain he is "up to suffin'," and the luckless penny is nothing but bribery and corruption; in short, all that was right and commendable before is wrong and reprehensible now.

It was this that had happened to the vicar of Willowton, and strangely enough, everybody knew it but the vicar! He was far too busy attending to his duties and succouring his people, body and soul, to feel any changes of temperature; and if he had, I will not exactly say that he would not have cared (for, of course, he would; he would not have been human if he had not), but it would have made no difference; he would have persevered in his course just the same. He was, he would have said, "about his Master's work," and it would never have occurred to him to alter his ways once he had made up his mind he was right.

The reason of his unpopularity was not difficult to determine—he had been preaching a crusade against dirt and unthriftiness. He had foretold in forcible language, from the pulpit as well as elsewhere, the coming epidemic, which the sanitary commissioner had declared inevitable, with the village in such a shocking state of insanitariness. The inspector called the houses "unsanitary," the vicar called them "dirty"—that was the difference. There was a very great difference between the sound of these two swords, and the vicar made the fatal mistake of using the wrong one. It was a pity, but the vicar was very outspoken, very impetuous, very straightforward. He had said so many times before, and nobody had ever even dreamt of taking offence. They knew it was true, and they were so used to it that they never thought of objecting to hearing the truth blurted out in his good-humoured, friendly manner—never till Corkam came back after his thirty-five years of "foreign travel."

"How you do truckle to that chap!" he would say to the men who touched their hats respectfully to him as he passed. "You think, he was cap'en on a wessel at least, and bos'un tight and midshipmite inter ther bargain. Blessed if I are goin' ter knock under to the parson, or a whole cargo o' parsons! that I won't; so there!" and Corkam would lean his elbows on the parapet of the bridge behind him, and stand with an impudent sneer on his coarse, flabby lips at the unsuspecting vicar as he passed.

Corkam had "no manners," he thought; "but one mustn't judge too much by appearances, and probably," he would tell himself, if Corkham's rudeness was more than usually aggressive, "he was much better than he looked." For the vicar's creed was of the thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians order—of the kind that believeth all things, and hopeth all things; and after all there is nothing like hope in the world. It is so perennial, if you are disappointed in your hopes about one thing, you can always go on hoping about another. And the vicar was very happy in his hopes, though they were often doomed to disappointment. He had good health, good spirits, and a good conscience, and he scarcely knew what it was to have a headache or endure a sleepless night. Truly "a man to be envied," his friend the doctor said, "and there are not many like him!"

The vicarage was a small house—a great many gables and very small rooms, all except the hall, which was a large, low-roofed, roomy apartment, with black oak beams supporting the uneven white-washed ceiling. A great gilt-faced grandfather's clock stood in one corner on the right-hand side of the fireplace, which was one of those delightful Queen Anne, urn-shaped grates, with high hobs on either side, on which the vicar's housekeeper kept her master's coffee, or soup, or cocoa, as the case might be, warm when he failed to come in for his meals, which was no uncommon occurrence, especially since the outbreak of the fever, when, as the long-suffering woman constantly complained, "he don't never show his face till the meat is cooked to a cinder, or the water for his tea has boiled itself flat."

The vicarage garden ran down to the churchyard on one side, and was bordered on the other by the ubiquitous little stream that wound itself in and out through the village like a shining ribbon. The flowers in the vicar's garden were mostly quaint, old-fashioned things. He knew nothing about flowers himself, but his housekeeper did, and he had the advantage of succeeding a man who had a passion for gardening, and who had stocked the place with bulbs, innumerable tulips, daffodils, crocuses, snowdrops, and aconites, and little old-world hepatica and grape hyacinths. While against the high brick wall, now mellowed with time, were old single pink peonies, great yellow tiger lilies, and mulleins, just coming out over the porch the blue wisteria did her best to flower, but perished in the attempt; while the tropeolum, and other creeping things that Mrs. Crowe had grown so successfully every year against the trellis, died off before they began to climb. It was as if the fever had touched them too, poor things; though Mrs. Crowe did surreptitiously fill her watering-pot at the stream and water them ever evening when the vicar was out of the way; for that gentleman was a very dragon over the water, and the stream, as I said before, was getting daily lower and lower, and water scarcer and scarcer.

CHAPTER III.

THE DOWSER.

The meeting at the Union, mentioned in the first chapter, was stormy, but it resulted in victory. The sudden summoning of the principal people in the parish was occasioned by the appearance of a "water-finder." This the chairman, a gentleman farmer of some local importance, well known in the hunting field, proceeded to explain in a disjointed, halting, and somewhat unconvincing manner. It was evident that he was half ashamed of yielding to what he knew most of his hearers would term foolish superstition, and others would fear as savouring of witchcraft and other forbidden things.

The meeting was an open one, concerning as it did, all the parish; and among others our three "loafers" of the bridge had strolled in, and sitting down on a back seat prepared to hear what was going to be said. They had come in from very different motives, and kept together from force of habit. The cripple had come because he wisely never omitted to attend anything that would afford him entertainment and change from the dull monotony of his days; the ex-seaman came, as usual, in the spirit of opposition, with the full determination of opposing whatever decision the authorities should come to; and George accompanied them merely because they asked him.

Mr. Rutland, who was late, as we know, slipped in quietly, and took a seat on a bench which was placed along the side of the room. The water-finder had just stepped on to the platform, and with a little nervous cough was beginning to explain his mission. He was a slight, spare man, of perhaps thirty years of age, with an extraordinarily sensitive face—the sort of look one sees sometimes in a great musician or dreamer—his hair fairish, inclined to red, and his complexion that which goes with such hair. There was nothing else remarkable about him but his hands, which were delicately formed, yet strong and nervous. His voice was low and pleasant, but he spoke with some hesitation, and had not the air of confidence that accompanies the necromancer or conjurer.

The vicar's keen eye took in all this at a glance, and he involuntarily turned to the audience to see how they took him. His eye fell on the three men on the bench at right angles with him. He saw Corkam arrange his face in the supercilious sneer he knew so well. He saw Farley dart a look at him to get his "cue," and then twist his own poor, pinched features into the best imitation of his "friend's" that he could accomplish. The effect was so completely artificial that the vicar could not restrain a smile of amusement. George's fair, good-natured face expressed absolutely nothing.

The water-finder's words were very simple. He protested nothing, and promised nothing. He had discovered a few years ago, he said, that he had the gift of finding water in unexpected places. His powers were not infallible, he explained, but were dependent on many things, the nature of which he was unable to determine. Possibly it was the condition of the atmosphere, possibly the state of his own health, possibly the influence of want of faith in the people who accompanied him on his quest—he was unable to account for it—but certainly there were times when he had failed.

At this point his audience shuffled impatiently with their feet, and sundry little grunts and groans were heard, and the short artificial laugh of Farley was plainly distinguishable. The water-finder ran his mild, dreamy eyes along the benches, passed without interest over Farley and Corkam, and rested for a moment on Geo.

He had heard, he said, of the dreadful pass that Heigham was likely to come to for want of water, and being in the neighbourhood on a visit to some relations, had called on Mr. Barlow and offered his services. It was for this meeting, he understood, to reject or accept them. He had nothing more to say.

Mr. Barlow then rose and proposed a show of hands. This was the signal for a general uproar, and perhaps a dozen or so hands were lifted. The water-finder looked disappointed, the chairman angry, and rough words were shouted from the audience.

"We don't want no palaverin', conjurin' chaps here," shouted some. "Down with the sin of witchcraft!" shouted another. "Duck 'im in a 'orse pond, same as they did time agone," shouted the village wag. "My, I'll make 'im swim!"

At this juncture the vicar walked up the room, and by a sign from the chairman stepped on to the platform.

"We don't want no parsons neither," shouted a ne'er-do-well, who had had a drop on his way; but the parson, if he had lost his popularity, had not lost his power of engaging attention. The chairman rang his bell to secure silence, and a voice from the back of the room shouted "Hear, hear!"

"It seems to me," said the vicar, "that all we want is water. It is with the hope of finding a solution to our terrible difficulty that we are met here to-day. Everything, as you all know, that ordinary science and knowledge can show us has been exhausted, and with no result. We are in desperate case. We 'must have water, or we die.' It is true that our stream still runs, and some of our wells yield water; but it is polluted, and breeds fever in those who drink it. But all this is well known; it is idle to recapitulate it. I take it that all we have to decide is whether we accept Mr. Wilman's offer or not. I think there can be no doubt about it. 'The drowning man catches at a straw.' (Mr. Wilman will forgive the allusion.) I trust he is no straw; but, humanly speaking, we are undoubtedly 'drowning men.' It seems to me there is no 'conjuring' or 'witchcraft' about his thing. God has given us all certain powers—'divers gifts' as the Bible has it—and just because we do not understand or cannot explain this reputed gift of water-finding, why reject the possibility of it in our hour of need? Let us give Mr. Wilman a fair trial; let him do his best, and if he fails, well, we are in no worse plight that we were before."

The vicar stepped down amid dead silence; his words had not had time to sink in. The chairman rose.

"Gentlemen," he said, "my mind is made up. Mr Wilman has free leave to come over my land and find us water where he can. I can't let ignorance or blind prejudice stand in his way. I completely endorse all the vicar's words."

"And I too," and a burly Nonconformist tradesman stepped up; "and I'll give you twenty pounds towards the expenses of sinking the well."

Ten minutes after this sixty pounds had been subscribed by the influential people present. The meeting was broken up, and the water-finder was casting his eye once more over the audience to select his companions in the quest.

"Mr. Barlow will come with me, and I should be glad if you would too, sir," he said to the vicar, who was making his way out.

"I only wish I could," he replied heartily—"it would give me the greatest pleasure; but I have got to take two funerals this afternoon, and I must run home and get something to eat first. Many thanks, all the same, and I need scarcely say how anxiously I shall look for the result of your trial."

He hurried off as he spoke, and Mr. Barlow and the water-finder walked slowly up the street behind him, and disappeared into the former's house.

An hour later they emerged and walked up the street.

CHAPTER IV.

THE SEARCH FOR WATER

It will readily be imagined that the "dowser," as he called himself, was not allowed to go on his quest accompanied only by Mr. Barlow. He was followed, as was only natural, at a fairly respectable distance, by by a selection of all the idle boys and girls in Willowton, and for once Geo Lummis had deserted his friends on the bridge, and followed the little crowd leisurely in the rear, with his hands in his pockets, and his hat tilted at the back of his head.

The water-finder carried in his hand a freshly-cut hazel rod, which he had brought from Mr. Barlow's garden. It was about two feet long, and forked at one end. He held it, point downwards, straight in front of him, with a "prong" in each hand, and he walked at a fair pace, his eyes fixed on the rod, and preserving a dead silence.

As he went the little procession followed him up the main street over the bridge nearly as far as Gravel-pit Lane. Here the lookers-on noticed the hazel twig jerk outwards unmistakably. Mr. Barlow, who was walking abreast of him, sent an inquiring glance at him.

"Only drain water," said the dowser laconically, without slackening his pace.

A few more steps brought him to the bottom of Gravel-pit Lane, and Annie Chapman, with a tribe of dirty, bright-eyed children clinging to her bedraggled skirts, came out to see the fun. The sun had gone in, and a sort of thick heat-mist pervaded everything. It was the sort of afternoon that during any other summer than that of 1901 would have ended in a thunderstorm; but it seemed as if the clouds had forgotten how to rain, and the parched ground looked thirstier than ever, while an unsavoury drainy smell rose from the cluster of infected houses.

In the garden of the Chapman's house was a condemned well, now, fortunately perhaps, dry. A wooden cover was over the brickwork, and it was safely padlocked. Annie and her brood rested against this as they watched the dowser advancing.

He made straight for her gate. At a sign from her one of the children opened it, and he and Mr. Barlow passed through; the crowd remained outside. The door into the untidy sitting-room was open, and without a "with your leave" or "by your leave" the water-finder passed in, the twig jerking violently all the time. Annie coloured, and sprang towards the house. Mr. Barlow, who was following mechanically, stopped. "An Englishman's house is his castle." He waited for permission. Annie was always hospitable in spite of what to her was a sudden inexplicable feeling of shame that the gentlemen should see what a pigsty the house was. She smiled, however, as she held open the door, and drew her fairly clean apron as far over her dress as she could.

"Go you in, sir," she said; "though God a'mighty knows what he's after there, I don't."

Before Mr. Barlow could take advantage of her invitation, however, the dowser had passed out through the little kitchen into the yard behind, where, stumbling along over Annie's pots and pans and other utensils, which were everywhere but where they ought to be, he stopped short at a high privet fence, neatly clipped; for with the backyard Annie's dominion ended and Tom's began, so the fences and the gate and the palings were in good order. There was no getting over this fence; it ran all the length of the row of houses. The dowser retraced his steps, and led by Mr. Barlow soon reappeared by a circuitous route at the opposite side of the fence. Annie and her children made a big hole in the dusty green of it and peered through.

Behind this hedge was a small piece of waste land, or common, where the boys played desultory games of cricket in the hot evenings; and when there was any feed at all on it, the few people who owned donkeys in Willowton turned them out to graze. Just now it was as hard brickbats and guiltless of any signs of green. All the way across this piece the rod jerked and twisted.

"There is water here," the dowser said, stopping and wiping his brow. He looked exhausted, and sat down on the bank that ran along the top of the rather shallow gravel-pit that gave the name to the place. "The spring is a deep one, too," he continued thoughtfully—"perhaps eighty or a hundred feet below the surface; but it is a bad place for sinking a well—too dangerous by far with all this gravel. We will try somewhere else."

At Mr. Barlow's request, however, he marked the spot with a large stone, for it was impossible to put a stick in the hard ground.

"How do you know what depth it is down, may I ask?" said the farmer politely; and the crowd of boys and girls listened eagerly for the answer, and none more eagerly than Geo, who stood a little aloof with an unusual alertness in his bearing.

"I know in this way," said the dowser, taking up his twig which he had laid down for a moment and standing over the place indicated. "I judge by the distance from it at which the rod is influenced. Deep-lying water affects a smaller area than that which is nearer the surface. My rod, as I daresay you observed, began to jerk before we reached yonder cottage," pointing back at the Chapman's house. "That must be a couple of hundred yards or more away. No," he added in answer to further questions, "I don't go by any exact scale of measurement. Other people may do so, but I don't. Experience enables me to be pretty certain about it, and I trust to that."

Geo was so intensely interested at this conversation that he could not help advancing nearer than manners permitted. The dowser noticed him.

"I think I saw you at the meeting," he said, looking kindly at him. "Have you ever seen water found like this before?"

Geo touched his hat respectfully.

"No, sir," he said, "that I hain't. That's the most wonderful thing I ever see in my life."

The dowser smiled.

"It does not seem so wonderful to me," he said. "I come of a family of dowsers. My father was one before me, and my grandfather, and I have a sister with the same gift, though I have but lately discovered my own power. There are a good many of us in the south-west of England—Wiltshire, Dorset, Cornwall; I am a Wilts man myself."

"Oh, indeed, sir," said Geo because he had nothing else to say.

"You do it professionally, I conclude, then?" said Mr. Barlow, inwardly quaking lest Mr. Wilman should demand an exorbitant fee.

"Dear me, no—not at all. I do it quite in an amateur way, just for the love of it. A man must sometimes help his fellow-creatures. I am not a rich man. I can't do much in the way of money, but having this gift, I occasionally make use of it. I was taking a holiday just now. I am on a motor car with a friend, and we are stopping a few days in your neighbourhood. I heard of your difficulties, as I think I mentioned at your meeting, and saw my opportunity for indulging in my hobby. When I am at home I am a very busy man, Mr. Barlow. I am sub-agent to Lord Atherthy."

"Indeed, sir, indeed," said Mr. Barlow, with considerable relief and a palpable increase of respect. "And I'm sure it is very kind of you. We are as a parish immensely indebted to you; at least, ahem, we shall be when—-"

"When I find the water, eh? Well, I am not content with this place. I am rested now; I think we'll go on.—You, young man," addressing Geo, "can come alongside if you like, but not too near. Keep, like Mr. Barlow, a few paces behind me."

So once more the procession moved on, and the dowser, after walking perhaps some hundred yards away from the place where he professed to have discovered a spring, took up his rod in his accustomed way and strode on.

CHAPTER V.

OLD JIMMY'S SCRUPLES

In the meantime the vicar had eaten a hurried luncheon of bread and cheese in the master's room, and leaving the Union walked quickly down to the church. He had barely time to put on his surplus and stole when the mournful procession came in sight; and with a sad heart he went to meet it, reading, of course, as he went the opening sentences of our beautiful burial service for two more victims of the epidemic—a young girl and a child from Gravel-pit Lane.

After the service, when he once more emerged from the vestry, he was followed by the old man in whose person were embodied the three offices of verger, sexton, and clerk—"Jimmy the clerk," as the parish dubbed him.

If anybody had asked me to point out a few of the "characters" which are to be found in every village as well as in Willowton, I think, without hesitation, I should have begun with Jimmy Greenacre. I do not know if I shall be able to show you dear old Jimmy just as I saw him, because his quaintness was a great deal made up of a whimsical twist of his funny old face, a touch of humour in the turn of his sentences, and an absurd habit of gabbling his information like an eager child who has been given a few minutes only to say his say—a habit partly the result of having only three or four teeth left in his head, and partly from a laudable desire to use the best and most appropriate words in conversation with those he was pleased to look upon as his betters.

In person he was rather inclined to be tall, spare, and sinewy; his hair was thick, and still dark in spite of his seventy-three years; and being an economical gentleman, he was not as intimately acquainted with the barber as the vicar would have liked, but his rugged-lined old face was clean shaven, and tanned to a deep mahogany. He walked with the slow, rather shuffling gait of the agricultural labourer, and stooped a little from the shoulders with the stoop that comes of hard work in early youth. Jimmy had been born and bred in Willowton, and he was destined to die there. In his humble way he was a perfect walking De Brett: he knew the family history of every man, woman, and child in the place, and that of their forebears for the last two generations or more—some people said his memory was far too good! But if they had only known it, they themselves had benefited oftentimes by that same memory. To the vicar he was invaluable. The late incumbent had died very suddenly, and his wife had followed him within a few days. They had no children, and but for old Jimmy, Mr. Rutland would have had to find out everything for himself. But Jimmy knew the ropes, and taught the new vicar to put his hands on them. "Jimmy is as good as a curate to me any day!" the vicar would say with a kindly hand on the old man's shoulder when he introduced him to any of his friends; and old Jimmy would slip away with a pleased chuckle and a modest, "No, no, master; but I does my best, and a carn't due no more—so I carn't." Nor could he.

It was due to this passion for genealogies on the part of the old man that he took such a lively interest in Geo Lummis, the "laziest booy," as he termed him in his own mind, in Willowton.

"That there chap harn't got a chance, that he harn't," he would tell the vicar. "His fayther was jist sich another, and his grandfa' afore him—poochin', good-fur-noethin's booth on 'em! messin' about all day a' the bridge, and creepin' out a' nights after the trout—ticklin' of 'em, yer mind, and layin' abed the best o' ther mornin' afterwards. This here booy—why, Mr. Morse, he took a likin' tew 'um, and had 'um up here teachin' of 'um all manner a' things. He set 'im tew a trade along av a carpenter in Walden; but he was sune back agen, an' dun no good at all! And here he be, herdin' along a' that scum Corkam, and talkin' all manner a' rubbidge along a' him. His mother's ter blame, I say. She knew well enow how it was with her husband, and here's she a-lettin' a' the booy go th' same way. But there, what can yew expect a' her when yew cum to recollect that her mother, Mary Anne, was—" But when Jimmy went into the next generation the vicar was apt to interrupt him, for he was an impetuous, hasty young man, and not so good a listener as the old man would have wished him to be.

But on this occasion Jimmy's words commanded attention.

"Look yew there sir!" he exclaimed in a hollow tone, grasping the vicar's arm, and pointing with a gnarled old finger that shook partly from age and partly from excitement—"look you there, sir! There go Mosus to strike th' rock. 'Must we find you water?' he say; and yer know what happened tew 'um, yer know, and so dew he—well!" and Jimmy threw out both hands with a gesture that implied that he, at least, would have no traffic with such evil doings.

Mr. Wilman and his following had just come over the common, and were bearing down again on the village, and the vicar was all eagerness to join them. It was tiresome of Jimmy to detain him just now, and Jimmy was as difficult to shake off as a terrier with a rat.

"You'll be thankful enough to drink the clear water when we get it, I'll be bound. And as for the means, it isn't for you or me either to criticise Mr. Wilman. God has given him apparently an unusual gift, and he is going to use it for our good. Be off with you and cut the grass, you old goose."

"Cut the grass! He, he!" This was a little joke between the vicar and the clerk, and Jimmy never failed to laugh at the sarcasm (it had been so long since there had been a blade of grass to cut). "Well, well, let his punishment fall on his own hid!" said Jimmy piously.

"Jimmy," said the vicar, quite seriously this time, "if I wasn't a parson, I should tell you you're a regular old fool. There's a proverb somewhere (you won't find it in the Bible, so don't think you've caught me tripping) that says, 'God helps those who help themselves;' and do you honestly tell me that if we kneel down every Sunday and pray for rain, and don't accept every chance of getting good water that God puts in our way, that He will pay any heed to us? Must we have it in our own special way, or not at all? Jimmy, Jimmy, your argument won't hold water; you'd better come with me and see how it's done."

But Jimmy scorned the suggestion, and went off mumbling about judgements to come, and doers of iniquities, and witches, and soothsayers, till he had grumbled himself out of the churchyard and up the lane till he reached his own door.

He found the house empty. Milly had been smitten with the quest, and had gone out to the dowser. Jimmy could hardly believe his ears when the next door neighbour—a lame woman who "would have gone on her own account if she could," as she stoutly protested when Jimmy lifted up his voice in a gabble of invective—informed him that Milly had asked her to see to the kettle, and the cake in the oven, while she went off to see the water found. "And small blame, too! Who wouldn't see a miracle when they could in these days when nothing happened that—-"

"There's no miracle at all about it," grumbled Jimmy, turning round and arguing the other way when he found himself worsted.

"Well, then, I don't see that you have no call to make such a to-due about it. If that be so as you say jest ordinary tappin', there can't be no witchcraft nor Satan's work about it. Bless me, if I'd a got your legs I'd have been there long ago."

And so it happened that before many minutes were over Jimmy's curiosity had overcome his scruples, and he became one of the fast-increasing crowd.

CHAPTER VI.

PUBLIC OPINION ON THE BRIDGE

The sun was setting, and the long shadows were slanting into the tired faces of the crowd, before the dowser considered he had satisfactorily accomplished his self-imposed task. He had made his circuit of the village, and come back again to the common. He had found and marked three springs: two were, he said, at a considerable depth, some hundred or more feet below the surface; and one, the most conveniently-placed for those who were to benefit by it, was on the edge of the common, perhaps three or four hundred yards from the church. When he and his following returned after their long and successful quest, they found motor car standing at the Wild Swan, puffing and snorting in the impatient way that motors do. The driver, who was most unmistakably out of patience, called out to him to hurry, or "they would not get to Ipswich that night;" and after a brief adieu to Mr. Barlow, and a comprehensive word to the assemblage, he climbed into the car and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Willowton metaphorically rubbed its eyes. It was like a dream. This morning they were to die for want of water; this evening it appeared there was "water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink."

When the last sound of the departing motor's horn had died away Geo Lummis joined his cronies on the bridge.

"Well," said Corkam, in his rancorous voice, "of all the tomfoolery I ever seed in my life, I never seed anything to ekal this! Do yew mean ter tell me as that old bloke with a piece a' stick can find out where the water is, a hundred feet under the earth? Well, if yew think I'm goin' ter believe that, why you're greater fules nor I took yer for."

"He, he, he!" laughed the cripple admiringly. "He knaw a thing or tew, due Mr. Corkham."

"Well," said Corkam, swelling with importance, "if I di'n't I ought ter, for I've been twice ter 'Meriky, and that's moor nor the rest of yer hev."

This argument was unanswerable, for nobody else certainly had crossed the Atlantic, or had, for the matter of that, ever experienced the slightest desire to do so; but still, to have been a traveller gives one importance in one's native village, and Corkam never let the American experience be forgotten. There was a tradition that an impudent boy, with an inquiring mind, had once asked him how long he had been there; and there were people in the upper walks of life in Willowton who had expressed an opinion that he had gone over as a stoker in one of the "Cunarders," but had never done more than set his foot on the soil of the other hemisphere. But the fate of the indiscreet boy, whose ears had tingled for some time after his awkward question, had successfully deterred others from indulging in any undue thirst for information on that point, and Corkam was popularly supposed to be a mine of knowledge. It was, therefore, distinctly disappointing to find that the afternoon's excitement was to go for nothing, and that they were, so to speak, "no forrader" than they were before.

There was soon quite a little crowd round the "traveller," who was airing his opinions freely, and consequently enjoying himself exceedingly.

"And if he hev found water," he was saying—"s'posin', as we'll say, s'posin' there is water where he say—why, he didn't find that for nothin'. Bah! I knaw better'n that. He knaw wot he's about, does that gen'lm; he'll be round here in a month or two, I'll lay a soverin', arstin' for yer wotes for the next election! I knaw 'em; they're all alike—doctors, parsons, jowsers—they don't do anythin' for nothin'. Mark my words, he'll git suffin' out on yer before long. I knaw 'em, an' I ought'er, I'm shore, for ha'int I've bin te 'Meriky?"

How long this harangue might have continued one cannot tell, but an interruption was cased by the arrival on the scene of the doctor in his high dog-cart. He pulled up on the bridge and addressed the crowd.

"This seems to be a good opportunity of speaking to you, my men, on the subject which will be discussed in the schoolroom to-morrow at dinner-time. Three springs of water are said to have been discovered, and it has been decided to sink wells, if possible, in all three places; and also to clear out those wells which already exist, with a hope that when the rain does come, and the springs begin to work again, the water may be purer and more fit to drink. The wells must be dug at once, the funds must be raised somehow or other; we can't stop to consider how at this moment, for it is a matter, as you all know, of life and death. What we propose to ask of you is to come forward with offers of help. The farmers have kindly consented to spare those of their men who know anything about well-sinking. I am about to send telegrams to several well-known men to come to our assistance, and I now ask you to think the matter over this evening, and those men who are willing to offer their services will, I hope, come in person to the meeting at one o'clock to-morrow, when a selection will be made by a committee, which will be formed this evening. I should like to add that the question of wages will be also settled, and that the vicar and I will be responsible for their prompt payment. All we ask of you is your hearty co-operation in what is for the good of the whole parish."

"Hear, hear!" shouted a few voices in the crowd, who, for the most part, received the intimation with sullen silence and imperturbability of countenance. Corkam's words had done their work, and Willowton had veered round again and become incredulous. The doctor drove off, first to call at a fever-smitten house at the extreme end of the village, and then to beat up a committee of influential men for the meeting next day.

"Responsible fur the wages, indeed!" sneered Corkam. "I'd like ter know where they're agoin' ter git th'money from! They'll borrer it, I s'pose, and make a good thing out of it. Never fear, yer don't blind me; I know 'em!"

"Well," said a man who had hitherto preserved a stony silence, "th' wells have got to be dug somehow, and I don't see what call anybody hev ter bother about where th' money come from so that's good money, and that they come by it honest. I know sumthin' about well-diggin', and I shall go if they'll hev me."

"And so'll I, Martin, if yue due," said Tom Chapman, who stood beside him. "I don't know nothin' about it; but I know that's dangerous work, and is well paid, and I can work under yur and due my best."

"That you can, booy," said the other man, clapping him on the back, "an' a better mate I don't never want te see."

After a little more desultory talk the crowd separated, and they all went home to their evening meal, and to talk the matter over with their wives.

CHAPTER VII.

TOM CHAPMAN "TAKES ON" AT THE WELL

When Tom Chapman opened his door a sight met him that was not a grateful one to a tired man, and would have put most men into a rage, but Tom didn't seem to mind much. He picked his way cheerfully along over all manner of things, picking up a crowing infant as he went that was rolled up in a shawl under the table. "The only safe place in the room!" his wife said. A cry of joy greeted daddy's entrance, and half a dozen grubby little arms encircled his corduroy legs. His wife, with her hair all over her face, looked up from the couch where she was sitting, with the half-dressed youngster jumping about on her knees.

"What a mess!" was all Tom said.

"So it is Tom dear," said his wife cheerily; "but that'll be all clear in no time.—Off with you, childer." And in a trice all the elder ones were scampering upstairs, laughing with glee, and carrying the greater part of their garments, of which they had already divested themselves, with them. "Go you, Polly," she said to a girl of perhaps eleven years old, "and tuck 'em all up—there's a dear."

Polly vanished after the rest. Her mother floundered about collecting oddments for a few minutes, talking volubly all the time, and giving her husband an amusing and graphic description of the dowser's appearance in Gravel-pit Lane. Tom dangled the baby as he listened, and swallowed his impatience as best he could, for there were no signs of supper. Annie was incorrigible, he knew, and he often felt he ought to make a stand against so much untidiness and unpunctuality; but Annie always disarmed him. Worn and weary, tired or ill, she always had a smile for him, and then she had one great and very rare virtue—she never made excuses. She never either denied her faults or tried to explain them away. Tom, like the vicar, sometimes wished she did, for it would have given him an excuse for scolding her; but she never did, and so he learned to put up with it all. And she had also another rare and excellent gift—she could control the children. She never "smacked" or scolded them, and she never nagged at them; but when she told them to do anything, somehow or other, sooner or later—sometimes, certainly, a little "later"—they always obeyed, and that without coercion.

In a few minutes there was quiet overhead, for the children were saying their prayers, and Tom sat down to the table, and ate heartily of some very good boiled bacon and a mess of cold beans, washed down with a couple of glasses of fromerty, a drink he had enjoyed a few years before in the hayfield and having asked and learned how it was made, had passed his knowledge on to Annie, who was always quick at anything in the way of cooking, and eager to add to her store of knowledge in that line, to her husband's lasting joy and her own comfort.

"Annie," he said, when he had finished and she had rocked the baby to sleep, "I've took on as a well hand—leastways I've said I will work with Martin, and I shall go and offer myself to-morrow at the meetin'."

Annie's face fell.

"O Tom, I wish you wouldn't. That's such terrible dangerous work, and what ever shall I do if yew get hurt?"

"No more dangerous than many other things. That's good pay, and some one must do it. There'll be a rare job to find the men for three wells, to be dug at once the doctor say."

"Three wells at once! well, that is a job! Which'll yew be at, I wonder? P'raps they'll set yew on the one atop a th' lane. That 'ud be nice and handy, and yew could run in for yer dinner. And what'll they giv yew a day due yew think, Tom?

"I'm sure I don't know. Not less than three bob, I'm thinking, and p'raps more when we git down deep."

"Three shillin's a day; why, that's eighteen shillin's a week, and us only gettin' twelve! Why, we'll sune grow rich like that, Tom!"

Chapman laughed. There is not much wealth even on eighteen shillings for a family of ten! But the more the merrier, he said, when his friends commiserated him for having so many mouths to fee.

"Have you seen th' booy Tommy since th' mornin'?" asked Annie.

"No," he said; "I've bin after that dowser since I giv up work. He's all right up there. I allus said that was th' right place for 'm, though you was so set on keepin' him here."

"'Twasn't so much that as he wouldn't go, poor booy. He did beg me that hard not to send him away, I hadn't the heart to; and he'd 'a bin here now if Mr. Rutland hadn't come and carried him away in his own arms. And I'm thankful enough now that I let him go, for they let me go up and see him this tea-time, and he was a-lyin' there so comfortable, with plenty a' coolin' drink by his side, and Mrs. Davies lookin' after him a lot better than I could," said Annie with a sigh; but somehow she was learning to recognize her own shortcomings, and realizing how unsuitable a place her cottage was for illness.

"And he say to me, 'Mother,' he say, 'I do very well here; don't you take on about me'—for I couldn't help feelin' a bit bad a-leavin' of him there, in spite of all I see of the comfort round him. O Tom, the booards was that clean and the room that sweet!"

"Yis, I know," said Tom sympathetically; "and let's hope, now he's away, poor boy, the others will escape the fever. Anyways, the first thing to do is to git pure water, and I've set my mind on that, Annie gal; so don't yew try to put me off th' job."

"No—o, I won't," said Annie, as cheerfully as she could; but she didn't really like it, all the same, though the eighteen shillings a week dazzled her eyes.

The next morning Chapman and his mate and some half-dozen other men presented themselves at the meeting, and were taken on at the wells. Four of them were sent to the one by the railway station nearest the village, three were employed to empty one of the infected wells, and our two friends, Chapman and Martin, were sent with a couple of men, who had come out from Ipswich, to start the one over the spring the dowser had marked on the edge of the common, between the churchyard and Gravel-pit Lane, just as Annie had hoped.

The well-sinking committee, composed of the vicar, the doctor, the squire's agent Mr. Jones, Mr. Barlow, and three of the principal tradesmen in Willowton, lost no time in setting to work that afternoon. Boxer, the largest carpenter in the place, got an order for two cylinders or zones, to be made of the strongest oak planks, and well clamped, in the fashion of a barrel. These cylinders, which were, of course, circular, were about three feet in height, and measured about seven feet in diameter. They were made with an overhanging edge to hold and retain in their places the bricks that were to weight them as they sank into the soil; and a supply of sharp new spades and picks was sent to each well-side by the village ironmonger. Apparently every one was going to reap some benefit from this new scheme, and the prospect of good water, even to the most sceptical, could not fail to be popular.

Before the evening was out collecting boxes "For the New Wells" had been put in conspicuous places on the counters of each of the shops, and a large one was fastened on to the church door. There was one placed in a prominent position at the post-office, and old Jimmy tramped off to the station with the doctor's compliments to the stationmaster, and "would he put one in the waiting-room?" Of course the stationmaster was agreeable to this, and Jimmy had the satisfaction of seeing the box he brought hung on a nail near the ticket-collector's window, and of hearing the chink of the station-master's own contribution, and the promise from each of the two porters of all the money they would get in tips for the next three days.

"Not that that'll count for much," one of them remarked, with a wink at the old man that caused him to chuckle audibly, "'cos you know, master, we be'an't allowed to take no money."

Willowton was not a crowded junction, but only a little ordinary station on the line; yet somehow or other, between them those porters put nearly two shillings into the box.

For the next few days, whenever the vicar or the doctor showed himself in the village, he was sure to be stopped and asked for a collecting-card, and before the end of the week there were thirty-six cards at work in Willowton. Some wag suggested that there should be one on the bridge, and that Corkam or Farley should hang it round his neck with a suitable inscription, because they were certain to be always on the spot! But Corkam scowled so at the proposition that what might have really been a most excellent plan was never carried out: for the bridge, as I said before, was the central point of the little town, and few people but passed over it some time in the day; consequently quite good sum might have been collected if anybody had taken charge of a box. Corkam apparently did all the good works he ever meant to accomplish in America, and Farley dared not undertake to collect without his approval.

CHAPTER VIII.

A NEIGHBOURLY ACTION

It was a week after the finding of the water, and Mildred Greenacre was in the little orchard at the back of the cottage. There was a sickly smell in the air of dying May flowers; the parched blossoms fell fast on her head as she stooped over the nearly dried-up stream to fill her water-can. A half-starved looking billy-goat rubbed its horned head coaxingly against her and bleated piteously. It was trying its best to tell her that there was no nourishment in the burned-up grass, which was all it had to live on. Milly was paying very little attention to the poor animal's complaint, for she was kneeling on the bank, holding on to a thorn bush with one hand, while she vainly strove to reach the sunken water with the other. She made a pretty picture in the broad sunlight, and it was not lost upon the "laziest chap in th' place," as he sat idly balancing himself on a gate opening into the field on the other side of the water.

For some time, unseen himself, he watched the girl's fruitless endeavours, and then he suddenly lifted up his voice and shouted, so that she started and almost dropped her can.

"Hold hard, and I'll help yer!"

Milly rose from her stooping position, and looked round to see where the voice came from. Geo came slowly towards her. He came slowly, because it never occurred to him to hurry! If ever he had experienced an impulse to hasten his steps, it was at this moment.

"I'll fill yer can," he said laconically, and without raising his eyes to the pretty, flushed face across the stream.

"But you can't," said Milly; "you're the wrong side, you see."

"I on't be there long, then," replied Geo, measuring the distance with his eye. "Yew git out a' the way, and I'll soon be alongside a' yew."

"You're never going to jump?" began Milly, with round eyes of surprise. As she moved aside, but before the sentence was finished, Geo had sprung across.

It was not much of a jump—nine feet or so—but Geo had not attempted anything so athletic for many a long day, and it was not surprising that he landed somewhat ungracefully on all fours, and was rather breathless when he picked himself up, only to sit down again very promptly and wipe his brow with a blue-and-white handkerchief.

Milly stood looking at him with surprise.

"Have you hurt yourself?" she ventured, after a minute.

"No, no, thank ye, only a bit shook; the ground is hard."

"That it is," said Milly—"like iron. If only the rain would come, what a good job that would be!"

"That would indeed! But we've got water to drink at last—leastways we shall have when the wells are dug."

"How are they getting on with them?" asked Milly, forgetful of her morning's work for the moment.

"Well, the one on the common is gettin' on fairly well. They've got down about fifty feet; but that's 'mazin' hard work, as you can see."

"And the other, the one by the railway? I haven't been round there these three days, and my grandfather, he won't have nothin' to say to it." Milly smiled as she said this, and an answering smile showed itself on Geo's broad face.

"No, so I heard say. He's an old-fashioned old gentleman, he is. He don't go with th' times no-how, do 'ee?"

"That he don't," said Milly. "You should hear him goin' on about it!"

"Well," said Geo, rising slowly from his recumbent position and taking the can from the girl's hand, "that's a rum job altogether. Them at the bridge can't make nothin' of it, and no more—-"

"Why do you go with them at the bridge at all?" broke in Milly impatiently. "Who cares what they say or what they don't say, I should like to know?" very haughtily. "Give me my can, please; I can get it myself!"

Geo stared at her, at a loss to account for the sudden change in he look and manner. A minute ago she was evidently inclined to be friendly, but now she was equally evidently inclined to be extremely annoyed with him. Geo gave vent to his feelings in a low, long whistle. Milly blushed crimson.

"I beg your pardon," she said; "I oughtn't to have said it. That's no business of mine whether you loaf all day on the bridge not. But I have my work to do, and I mustn't loiter here no more, or I shall have grandfather after me."

Geo stood quietly by while she made this rather long speech, and was surprised to feel that he did not quite like it. He was inclined to think he liked it better when she flashed out her contempt for his idleness. But being a man of few words, and not much felicity of expression, he merely muttered something unintelligible, and leaning over the bank filled her can.

"I'll car' it for you if you're agreeable," he said shamefacedly, and the two moved together towards the cottage.

"Thank you kindly," Milly said gently when they reached the door; but she did not ask him to step in, and he turned away awkwardly enough, wishing he had the courage to tell the girl he had not spoken to three time in his life since they were at school together that he was tired of his companions on the bridge, and would gladly change his habits if only she would be friends with him.

With a gruff "You're welcome, I'm sure," he slouched off towards the village.

As he turned out of the lane by the bridge, Corkam caught sight of him, and called after him,—-

"Geo, come here, buoy! What are you arter, slinking away like that? Why, that nigh on time for a pint!"

But Geo, for once in his life, turned the other way, and sauntered up the road to the new well by the railway. The men had given up work for a spell, and were sitting in the shadiest spot they could find eating their "'levenses." Geo lay down under the fence with them.

"If I'd ha' known what a job this 'oud ha' bin," said one man, "blow me if I'd ha' took it on."

"Hard work, is it?" said Geo pleasantly.

"Ay, hard work indeed—harder work nor you iver did a' your born days, I'll lay a sovr'in'."

For the first time since Geo didn't know when, he felt a twinge of shame at these rough words, and his eyes fell on his own hands, fine, strong, well-shaped, capable hands, tanned with sun and wind, but not hardened with toil like the other men's. A big, good-natured looking man, who had just swallowed a good draught of home-made "small beer," spoke suddenly, as if he had divined the other's thoughts.

"They look as if they cold do a day's work as well as mine," he said, holding out a pair of rough, strong limbs, with sinews like those of Longfellow's village blacksmith, and muscles standing out, hard and healthy, as a working man's should be. "Let me feel your muscles, buoy." He gripped Geo's arm as he spoke. "Pulp!" he ejaculated, not ill-naturedly, however—"pulp! How come they like that? Have you had th' fever, buoy!"

"Mighty little fever about him," said the man who had spoken first. "That's want a' work wot's the matter a' him! He never had a wet jacket a' his life! He's too much a' th' gentleman, is Mr. George Lummis, and so was his father before 'im—like father, like son. He was a precious sight too grand to keep his own wife when he was alive, and niver did na more nor trap a rabbit when there worn't nothin' to eat in th' house."

"You lie!" said George, with sudden anger leaping up in his face, and standing with blazing eyes staring at the sneering workman. "Say what you like about me, but you leave my father alone, or I'll know what for."

"Hullo, hullo!" said the good-natured man, who was a stranger, and had no idea of raising such a storm when he remarked on Geo's very apparent strength of frame. "Hullo! stow that; that a sight too hot for quarrelling. We'll ha' to go to work again in twenty minutes, and tha would be a good lot more pleasant to have a whiff a' bacca than commin' to fisticuffs a' this heat. Sit down, young man, and don't be a fule."

But Geo was much to irate to follow this obviously good advice. Without appearing to notice the stranger's words, he strolled off with as unconcerned an air as he could to the bridge. His possible good resolutions had all faded away, swallowed up in the blow his vanity had received, and a few minutes later he had joined his friends Farley and Corkam in their far less harmless "'levenses" at the inn. Here he regaled them with an account of his passage of arms with the stranger, and received their sympathy and strongly-expressed advice to do as he pleased, "and be hanged to them!" There might be a late "haysel," and he might get taken on for the time, and put a few pounds in his pocket to tide him over till harvest. So when Milly passed over the bridge at about one o'clock with her grandfather's dinner, which she was taking to him where he was at work to save him the hot walk home and back, she saw Geo with a flushed face and bravado air leaning against the bridge, with his familiar pals on either side. Milly saw, but she took no notice, and passed with her head in the air and an angry spot on either cheek. The girl was furious with herself for having taken an interest, even a momentary one, in such a worthless, good-for-nothing as Geo, and still more annoyed to think that she had let him see it.

"That's a tidy maid," said the cripple, with the air of a critic, as she passed, and both men were surprised at Geo's answer.

"What's that to you?" said Geo, in a sullen tone; and he crossed over, and became apparently completely engrossed in watching for a trout under a stone.

CHAPTER IX.

NURSE BLUNT ARRIVES

The last days of May were over, and June was here, but since the visit of the dowser there had fallen no drop of rain. The fever was in no-ways abated. There had been several more deaths and several new cases; another young Chapman was down with it; the isolation hospital was full, and a fierce battle was going on among the guardians as to the expediency of admitting sick people into the Union Infirmary.

In the meantime, by a subscription raised by the well-to-do in the parish, the services of a trained nurse had been secured, and old Jimmy had been asked to give her a lodging. Everybody knew how clean and neat Milly kept everything, and it was unanimously agreed at the meeting, which had been hastily summoned, that the nurse would be as comfortable there as anywhere else in the village.

Old Jimmy at first demurred, on account his granddaughter; but Milly herself soon argued him out of his objections.

"The fever is in the air, grandfather," she said. "I take all ordinary precautions against it. I boil and filter every drop of water we drink, and I never let anything dirty lie about anywhere, and am as particular as can be about every morsel of food we eat, and I don't see as I can do no more. If I'm to catch it I shall, but not from the nurse, I know, unless she takes it herself; for this typhoid is not like scarlet fever or smallpox—you can't carry it about in your clothes, but only take it immediate one from another. I'm not afraid of the nurse if you're not."

So Jimmy gave in, and one hot evening the nurse arrived. Mrs. Crowe, the vicar's housekeeper, met her at the station, and brought her to her new quarters. The white dust lay thick on the road, and the hedges all along were choked with it. A porter from the station followed with her box on a barrow. A most formidable box it was. It quite frightened Milly when she saw it. She thought she must be having a very grand lady to stay with her. But the nurse soon explained that it was simply filled with linen.

"I've brought enough to last me a month or two," she said, "and my aprons weigh so heavy; but if we can't get it up your stairs, why, we can just unpack it in the parlour and carry the things up in our arms. You need not worry about that."

Milly had set out a cosy tea in the little front room that opened into the garden—some nice home-made bread (for Milly always did her own baking), some butter and blackberry jam, and a boiled egg and some toast—in case the traveller was hungry after her hot journey. The tea was in a brown earthenware pot—which, as everybody is not fortunate enough to know, makes the very best tea in the world—and the cloth was spotless, and the knives and spoons well polished. Nurse cast a satisfied glance round before she followed Milly to the little bedroom upstairs. She had had plenty of experience, and she knew the signs of good housekeeping almost at a glance. There was no carpet in the room, but the flooring was exquisitely clean; some white curtains of a material that Milly's grandmother, who had made them and hung up forty years ago, had called "dimity;" the little wooden bedstead stood a little out from the wall, and the sheets and pillow-cases were as white as careful washing could make them. A rush-bottomed chair and a little table, with the necessary washing apparatus, completed the furniture. A jug of hot water stood in the basin, and a pair of clean towels and a fresh piece of brown Windsor soap looked inviting.

Nurse sat down and removed her bonnet, opened her little black hand-bag, and took out a sponge and a brush and comb; and Milly, with a pleasant "hope she found all to her liking," slipped away to make the tea. She had asked Mrs. Crowe to stay and have a cup with them, for she was, not unnaturally, a little shy of her new lodger. It was her first experience of having any one but her grandfather to look after, and she felt a little anxious.

As soon as tea was over Milly put a note into the nurse's hands. It had been left there, she said, by the doctor, who would be much obliged, did not nurse feel too tired, if she would come to him in the cool of the evening, and he would explain her duties to her.

The conversation naturally turned on the prevailing topic of the typhoid epidemic. Nurse, who had been a couple of years in a London hospital, had had a good deal of experience of this fever, and she told her listeners many interesting things which were useful for them to know just then. She was a pleasant-faced, kind-looking woman of about forty years of age, with a slightly dictatorial manner, which was perhaps the result of her training; for she had worked for several years as parish nurse in poor districts, and often, as she told them, met with terrible ignorance, and that obstinacy which so often accompanies it. People would not believe in infection, she said; they would not take the most ordinary, the most simple precautions; and what was worse, when they had learned by the bitter experience of the loss of, perhaps, their nearest and their dearest, they still persisted in the utter disregard of cleanliness and health.

"And that, no doubt, is the secret of this outbreak at Willowton. I have not been told so, but I take that for granted," said the nurse.

"Well, nurse, I should hardly like to go so far as that," said the vicar's housekeeper, standing up as far as her conscience allowed for her native place; "but there is a great deal of that too. But our chief trouble is the water. Nearly all the wells in the place are condemned by the sanitary inspectors, and we really don't know where to get water fit to drink."

"Dear me, that is bad!" said nurse. "What are your landlords about? Why isn't something done?"

"Oh, dear me, it's no fault of the landlords," said Mrs. Crowe, rather warmly. "It is one gentleman owns the whole place, but he has been out at the war the last two years, and his agent has been doing his best, but up to within the last fortnight there had been no possibility of finding any water. And most of the springs have gone dry."

"You say 'up to the last fortnight,' Mrs. Crowe. Do I understand that you have had some water found since then?"

"Well, yes; at least so we hope and trust there will be when the wells are dug."

And then she proceeded to give nurse a full and highly-coloured description of the "miracle," as some of the people persisted in calling it.

"Oh yes, I have heard of dowsers," said nurse. "It's a wonderful thing, and a good many people don't believe in it. But seeing is believing, and from what you say I hope we shall soon see a proof of the power. But we are lingering too long over our tea and chat. I must go up to the doctor's house, for he evidently wants to see me this evening, and I won't waste any more time. Perhaps one of you will show me the way!"

"I will," said Mrs. Crowe. "Indeed, it is time I was home too; the vicar will be in and wanting his supper."

So the two women went off together, and Milly was left to clear up the tea-things and get a meal ready, for her grandfather would not be in, he told her, till eight o'clock.

CHAPTER X.

ANOTHER FEVER VICTIM

The account the doctor gave Nurse Blunt of the deplorable state of the sickness in Willowton would have made a weaker woman quail, but Nurse Blunt was strong in body and mind.

"I mayn't sit up night, sir, as you know," she said, "but I'll do my best all day; and I'll begin at six o'clock to-morrow morning if you'll give me list of the most urgent cases."

The doctor took out his pocket-book.

"Four cases in Gravel-pit Lane," he read, "two in the main street, three in the back alley. None of these are particularly dangerous ones, but they all require great care, as you know, and the difficulty is to prevent their relations feeding them with forbidden things."

"I know that well, sir," said the nurse sorrowfully; "I've had a great many sad experiences of that. Many a poor thing has died through being given solid food at a time when nothing but milk should have been allowed."

"Yes," assented the doctor, "of course, it is as you say; and it has been the cause of death to several of our people. I cannot make them see the necessity for following my orders implicitly; they think it does not matter, or I won't find out. Well, perhaps I don't, but nature does, and we soon see the result."

"Where shall I go first?" asked nurse.

"Well, there is a new case declared only this afternoon—a Mrs. Lummis, a nice woman, a widow. She has no one really to look after her but a lazy ne'er-do-weel of a son. Perhaps you had better go there first. She will not keep you long. Everything will be neat; and though very poor, I fancy she knows what ought to be. If wanted, I'll give you an order for milk. Major Bailey has telegraphed from South Africa that his dairy (and he keeps a lot of cows) is at our disposal. You'd better tell her son he must go for it every morning." He wrote out an order as he spoke. "The others have all got them," he continued.

And after receiving a few more important directions, the nurse took her leave and strolled back through the village to her lodgings.

Milly and her grandfather were still up when she got back, though they usually "turned in" earlier. Milly, of course, waited to hear whether her lodger wanted anything before she retired for the night.

"Nothing, thank you," she said in answer to her inquiries; "but if you'll let me have breakfast at eight o'clock I should be glad. And perhaps you can tell me which of these places comes first. I like to take my patients as they come; it saves time and trouble, and they get to know when to expect me."

She handed Milly the doctor's paper, and Milly explained. Nurse took out a pencil and made some notes on the margin.

"Oh! and then there's Mrs. Lummis," she said.

"I am to go there first. Where does she live?"

"Mrs. Lummis!" echoed Milly with surprise. "Is she ill?"

"So the doctor says. And it appears she has no one to look after her but a good-for-nothing son. Poor woman! I'm sorry for her, for I shan't be able to give her much of my time with a list like this!"

Milly would have liked to say something in defence of George Lummis, for she had, or fancied she had, seen something of another side of his character when he had jumped across the stream and stood beside her so meekly while she spoke to him about his wasting his time on the bridge. She had fancied there was something rather fine about him, he had looked so strong and honest and capable for the moment; but then a little later how different had been his appearance! The remembrance of that kept her quiet; she had nothing to say.

Old Jimmy woke up just in time to hear nurse's remark. "Yes," he said, "a good-fur-northin', idlin' young fule." And if Milly had not stopped him with a timely reminder that it was nearly half-past nine, he would have plunged into the history of all poor Geo's antecedents for several generations. As it was, nurse was not particularly interested, and backed up Milly's suggestion that it was high time all good people went to bed.

In the meantime, in the little house on the hill that lazy, idle good-for-nothing was making ready for the night.

He pulled down the little blind over the open window, and set a jug of milk and water with a glass by his mother's bedside, and smoothed the sheet over her hot and tossing limbs.

"You just sing out, mother, if you want anything," he said, speaking in a comfortable, low-toned voice that did not jar on her aching nerves. "Or if you can't sleep. I'll come and set by you. I'd like to do that now if you'd let me."

"No, no, Geo my boy, that I won't; I'm quite comfortable as far as that goes. If it wasn't for the heat, maybe I'd get some sleep myself. You go to bed now, and when you wake come in and see after me. I'll call you sure enough if I want you."

So Geo came away, and throwing himself on his bed was soon sound asleep.

In the house next door a girl was ill. Mrs. Lummis had been helping to nurse her. If only she could be left, her mother would come and see after her, she well knew; for the poor are always at their best in times of illness, and the way they help each other is a pattern to those above them. But the girl was very bad indeed, not likely to recover, and Mrs. Lummis could not look for help from the nearly worn-out mother. It was a comfort that Geo seemed to be so handy. She was lucky, she thought, to have such a son; but she felt anxious, knowing that her illness was likely to be a long one. She knew not of the likelihood of the nurse coming to her. Like everybody else in the village, she knew of her advent, but nobody had told her she had really come. If she had she would have passed a less miserable night, perhaps; for, of course, nothing was farther away from her than sleep.

After all she had heard, nurse was rather surprised, when she knocked at the door about seven o'clock next morning, to find it opened to her by a pleasant, bright-faced young man, who looked as if he had just dipped his head into a tub of cold water, so fresh was his colour.

"You haven't been up all night, I'll be bound," she inwardly ejaculated; "but you look different from what I expected."

"I am the new nurse," she said in answer to the astonishment that shot out of his blue eyes, "and the doctor has sent me to see after your mother. What sort of night has she had?"

"Pretty bad," said Geo. "I was just gettin' th' kettle to boil, and thought I'd make her some tea."

"Milk is better for her," said the nurse.

"That's too early for milk yet," said Geo; "you can't get milk at the shop before eight o'clock."

"Oh, well, I've got a ticket for you," and the nurse produced it out of her little black bag.

"Why, that's for the Hall!" said Geo with surprise.

"Yes, that's all right; the doctor sent it. You'd better take a can and go and fetch it at once. I'll see after your mother if you'll just take me to her."

"But I think I'd better first let her know," said Geo, thinking this newcomer was taking rather too much on herself.

Nurse read his thoughts and flushed a little. She was so full of the importance of her mission, so anxious to do her work thoroughly, that she sometimes forgot the little courtesies due to everybody, sick or well.

"Certainly," she said, rather curtly. "I'll wait till you come down."

George disappeared up the steep little staircase that led out of the sitting-room to the bedroom overhead. He was gone a few minutes, and when he came back he said his mother would be glad to see nurse if the doctor had sent her, and he showed her up. The sick woman, who looked thin and flushed with fever, looked half frightened at the nurse for a moment, and then began to cry.

"Leave her to me," said nurse to Geo, who did not understand. "She'll be all right in a minute or two."

So Geo went off in his usual leisurely way for the milk, and the nurse talked soothingly to the sick woman, took her temperature, which was very high, and gave her some fever medicine.

"Are you going to do for her?" asked the nurse bluntly when Geo returned.

"I s'pose so," answered Geo in the same way.

"Well, I'll call in some time again this afternoon. You need not stop with her all day, but you must come in and out; and give her nothing but milk, but plenty of it. But can you be spared from your work? Oh," as Geo hesitated, "I forgot."

Geo saw she had already heard about him. It was unnecessary to explain.

"I'll due wot yue say," he said simply, opening the door and letting her out; and then he went back to his mother, who spoke gratefully of the nurse and seemed glad of her help.

CHAPTER XI.

THE STRIKE AT THE WELL

One would have thought that so excellent a work as the digging of the wells would be allowed to go on quietly, but unfortunately the fact that the scheme happened to have been originated by the vicar and the doctor was enough to make some people condemn it; and we all know, when once the thin end of the wedge of discontent and distrust has forced its way into anything, how difficult—nay, how often impossible—it is to dislodge it. And so it was that the men at the railway well, when they had dug to the depth of nearly fifty feet and had found no water, began to get impatient and disheartened. Most of the wells in Willowton were not more than thirty or forty feet deep, and were fed, of course, chiefly by surface drainage; hence their deadly poison. These new wells were on the higher ground above the village, and naturally water was to be found there only at a deeper level; but these men either would not or could not take this in. Two of them had had very little experience whatever in the work, and like all novices, they looked for immediate results; and when these were not forthcoming, they grumbled at the dowser, their employers, and everything else. Their evil counsellors advised a strike for higher wages than the unprecedented amount they were already receiving, and so it happened that one hot morning, when the vicar went up to see how they were progressing, he found the well deserted, and no signs of the men anywhere. He walked up to it and looked in. It was partially covered with planks in the usual way, apparently just as they had left it the night before. He was puzzled. The men had apparently struck. But why? he asked himself. And nothing he could recall threw any light upon the matter.

"That is the worst," he thought "of employing irregular workmen." But it had been impossible at such short notice to procure all professional well-sinkers, and he had thought himself very fortunate to have secured two, one for each well; while all the men, except Chapman, had seen the work going on at various farms in the neighbourhood, if they had not actually assisted. They were perfectly well aware of the nature of the work; they had volunteered for it, and gone at it cheerfully enough. The strike was altogether inexplicable.

The vicar paid his visit to the Union, and an hour later came on to the bridge, where he saw all four men seated on the parapet, smoking, and talking loudly and ostentatiously, as if they wished to engage the attention of the passers-by. They were a rough-looking gang, however, and nobody seemed inclined to stop. Curiously enough, neither Corkam nor Farley was present.

"Good-morning, my men," he said pleasantly when he got within speaking distance. "How is it you are not at work?"

A sort of sullen silence had come over them at his approach. No one attempted to break it, but each looked covertly at the other for guidance—all except the stranger, who turned his back and became apparently deeply interested in the ducks on the water.

"You're all here, aren't you? No accident, I hope?" said the vicar.

"No accident as I know on," answered the foreman at last.

He was a man who had been in the choir, but had left for some stupid reason or fancied slight, known only to himself. Mr. Rutland had been extremely kind to him always, and had helped him more than once with money when an accident during harvest had kept him out of work.

"Well," said the vicar, turning very red with an evident effort to keep his temper, "since none of you have anything to say, I will wish you good-morning."

"Well, but we have something to say," said another man roughly.

This man had had three children down with the fever, and the doctor had given them every attention, even sitting up half the night on occasion when two of them had been in a very critical state. He had behaved very differently then from what he was doing now. He thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, and tried to look as callous as he could.

The vicar looked at him for the eighth part of a second with disgust.

"Well, then, Cadger, stand up and say it properly," he said authoritatively.

The man slipped off the parapet, and stood looking very uncomfortable, for all his swagger, under the vicar's scrutiny.

"Now, then," said the vicar sharply, "what is it? what is your complaint?"

"We've struck," said two or three voices at once.

The vicar never once glanced at the graceless creatures still dangling their legs, though less aggressively; he addressed himself to Cadger.

"Oh, have you?" he said as calmly as he could. "What have you struck for?"

"More wages," said Cadger, glancing at his comrades for directions.

"Which you won't have," said the vicar quietly. He was quite calm now and very white. "You agreed for what was considered by yourselves, and by everybody else, a very generous wage. You have no right to ask more. I, for one, will certainly not advocate it. There is reason in all things, and money is not so plentiful in Willowton as you seem to think. I am disappointed in you, Cadger, particularly; I had thought better things of you. I fancied you, at least, were anxious to take your share in lessening the terrible trouble that has been put upon us; but I see now you only thought of your own interest. With my consent, I tell you honestly, you will not get a penny more."

"He! he!" laughed one or two of the men; but the vicar never looked round.

"But," he added, "I am only one. You can bring your complaint in proper form before the committee, and, of course, if the majority agree, what I say will not stand; so you have your remedy."

He walked away as he finished speaking, and Cadger sat down again. He did not say anything, for somehow or other, though he felt very valiant at first, he began now to feel rather small. There was an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, and then the stranger, whose name was Hayes, knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the root of a tree and spoke.

The Water-Finders

THE WATER-FINDERS

By the Author of 'Two of a Trade'

LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK THOMAS NELSON AND SONS

THE WATER-FINDERS

CHAPTER I.

WILLOWTON IS IN TROUBLE

CHAPTER II.

THE CHAPMAN FAMILY.

CHAPTER III.

THE DOWSER.

CHAPTER IV.

THE SEARCH FOR WATER

CHAPTER V.

OLD JIMMY'S SCRUPLES

CHAPTER VI.

PUBLIC OPINION ON THE BRIDGE

CHAPTER VII.

TOM CHAPMAN "TAKES ON" AT THE WELL

CHAPTER VIII.

A NEIGHBOURLY ACTION

CHAPTER IX.

NURSE BLUNT ARRIVES

CHAPTER X.

ANOTHER FEVER VICTIM

CHAPTER XI.

THE STRIKE AT THE WELL