martin kept his eyes shut for only about a minute, as he thought; but he must have been asleep some time, for when he opened them the false water had vanished, and the sun, looking very large and crimson, was just about to set. he started up, feeling very thirsty and hungry and bewildered; for he was far, far from home, and lost on the great plain. presently he spied a man coming towards him on horseback. a very funny-looking old man he proved to be, with a face wrinkled and tanned by sun and wind, until it resembled a piece of ancient shoe-leather left lying for years on some neglected spot of ground. a brazil nut is not darker nor more wrinkled than was the old man's face. his long matted beard and hair had once been white, but the sun out[34] of doors and the smoke in his smoky hut had given them a yellowish tinge, so that they looked like dry dead grass. he wore big jack-boots, patched all over, and full of cracks and holes; and a great pea-jacket, rusty and ragged, fastened with horn buttons big as saucers. his old brimless hat looked like a dilapidated tea-cosy on his head, and to prevent it from being carried off by the wind it was kept on with an old flannel shirt-sleeve tied under his chin. his saddle, too, like his clothes, was old and full of rents, with wisps of hair and straw-stuffing sticking out in various places, and his feet were thrust into a pair of big stirrups made of pieces of wood and rusty iron tied together with string and wire.

"boy, what may you being a doing of here?" bawled this old man at the top of his voice: for he was as deaf as a post, and like a good many deaf people thought it necessary to speak very loud to make himself heard.

"playing," answered martin innocently. but he could not make the old man hear until he stood up on tip-toe and shouted out his answer as loud as he could.

"playing," exclaimed the old man. "well, i never in all my life! when there ain't a house 'cepting my own for leagues and leagues, and he says he's playing! what may you be now?" he shouted again.

"a little boy," screamed martin.

"i knowed that afore i axed," said the other. then he slapped his legs and held up his hand with astonishment, and[35] at last began to chuckle. "will you come home along o' me?" he shouted.

"will you give me something to eat?" asked martin in return.

"haw, haw, haw," guffawed the old fellow. it was a tremendous laugh, so loud and hollow, it astonished and almost frightened martin to hear it. "well i never!" he said. "he ain't no fool, neither. now, old jacob, just you take your time and think a bit afore you makes your answer to that."

this curious old man, whose name was jacob, had lived so long by himself that he always thought out loud—louder than other people talk: for, being deaf, he could not hear himself, and never had a suspicion that he could be heard by others.

"he's lost, that's what he is," continued old jacob aloud to himself. "and what's more, he's been and gone and forgot all about his own home, and all he wants is summat to eat. i'll take him and keep him, that's what i'll do: for he's a stray lamb, and belongs to him that finds him, like any other lamb i finds. i'll make him believe i'm his old dad; for he's little and will believe most anything you tells him. i'll learn him to do things about the house—to boil the kettle, and cook the wittels, and gather the firewood, and mend the clothes, and do the washing, and draw the water, and milk the cow, and dig the potatoes, and mind the sheep and—and—and that's what i'll learn him. then, jacob, you can sit down and smoke your pipe, 'cos you'll have some one to do your work for you."[36]

martin stood quietly listening to all this, not quite understanding the old man's kind intentions. then old jacob, promising to give him something to eat, pulled him up on to his horse, and started home at a gallop.

soon they arrived at a mud hovel, thatched with rushes, the roof sloping down so low that one could almost step on to it; it was surrounded with a ditch, and had a potato patch and a sheep enclosure; for old jacob was a shepherd, and had a flock of sheep. there were several big dogs, and when martin got down from the horse, they began jumping round him, barking with delight, as if they knew him, half-smothering him with their rough caresses. jacob led him into the hut, which looked extremely dirty and neglected, and had only one room. in the corners against walls were piles of sheep-skins that had a strong and rather unpleasant smell: the thatch above was covered with dusty cobwebs, hanging like old rags, and the clay floor was littered with bones, sticks, and other rubbish. the only nice thing to see was a tea-kettle singing and steaming away merrily on the fire in the grate. old jacob set about preparing the evening meal; and soon they sat down at a small deal table to a supper of cold mutton and potatoes, and tea which did not taste very nice, as it was sweetened with moist black sugar. martin was too hungry to turn up his nose at anything, and while he ate and drank the old man chuckled and talked aloud to himself about his good fortune in finding the little boy to do his work for him. after supper he cleared the table, and[37] put two mugs of tea on it, and then got out his clay pipe and tobacco.

"now, little boy," he cried, "let's have a jolly evening together. your very good health, little boy," and here he jingled his mug against martin's, and took a sip of tea.

"would you like to hear a song, little boy?" he said, after finishing his pipe.

"no," said martin, who was getting sleepy; but jacob took no to mean yes, and so he stood up on his legs and sang this song:—

"my name is jacob, that's my name;

and tho' i'm old, the old man's game—

the air it is so good, d'ye see:

and on the plain my flock i keep,

and sing all day to please my sheep,

and never lose them like bo-peep,

becos the ways of them are known to me.

"when winter comes and winds do blow,

unto my sheep so good i go—

i'm always good to them, d'ye see—

ho, sheep, say i, both ram, both ewe,

i've sung you songs all summer through,

now lend to me a skin or two,

to keep the cold and wet from out o' me."

this song, accompanied with loud raps on the table, was bellowed forth in a dreadfully discordant voice; and very soon all the dogs rushed into the room and began to bark and howl most dismally, which seemed to please the old man greatly,[38] for to him it was a kind of applause. but the noise was too much for martin; so he stopped up his ears, and only removed his fingers from them when the performance was over. after the song the old man offered to dance, for he had not yet had amusement enough.

"boy, can you play on this?" he shouted, holding up a frying-pan and a big stick to beat it with.

of course martin could play on that instrument: he had often enough played on one like it to startle the echoes on the lake, in other days. and so, when he had been lifted on to the table, he took the frying-pan by the handle, and began vigorously beating on it with the stick. he did not mind the noise now since he was helping to make it. meanwhile old jacob began flinging his arms and legs about in all directions, looking like a scarecrow made to tumble about by means of springs and wires. he pounded the clay floor with his ponderous old boots until the room was filled with a cloud of dust; then in his excitement he kicked over chairs, pots, kettle, and whatever came in his way, while he kept on revolving round the table in a kind of crazy fandango. martin thought it fine fun, and screamed with laughter, and beat his gong louder than ever; then to make matters worse old jacob at intervals uttered whoops and yells, which the dogs answered with long howls from the door, until the din was something tremendous.

at length they both grew tired, and then after resting and sipping some more cold tea, prepared to go to bed. some sheep-skins were piled up in a corner for martin to sleep on, and old jacob covered him with a horse-rug, and tucked him in very carefully. then the kind old man withdrew to his own bed on the opposite side of the room.