Then there was poor Jacob Dodson, the half-witted boy, who ambled about
cheerfully, undertaking messages and little helpful odds and ends for
every one, which, however, poor Jacob managed always hopelessly to
imbrangle. Everything came to pieces in his hands, and nothing would
stop in his head. They nicknamed him Jacob Doodle-calf.
But above all there was Harry Winburn, the quickest and best boy in the
parish. He might be a year older than Tom, but was very little bigger,
and he was the Crichton of our village boys. He could wrestle and climb
and run better than all the rest, and learned all that the schoolmaster
could teach him faster than that worthy at all liked. He was a boy to
be proud of, with his curly brown hair, keen gray eye, straight active
figure, and little ears and hands and feet, "as fine as a lord's," as
Charity remarked to Tom one day, talking, as usual, great nonsense.
Lords' hands and ears and feet are just as ugly as other folk's when
they are children, as any one may convince himself if he likes to look.
Tight boots and gloves, and doing nothing with them, I allow make a
difference by the time they are twenty.
Now that Benjy was laid on the shelf, and his young brothers were still
under petticoat government, Tom, in search of companions, began to
cultivate the village boys generally more and more. Squire Brown, be it
said, was a true-blue Tory to the backbone, and believed honestly that
the powers which be were ordained of God, and that loyalty and steadfast
obedience were men's first duties.
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