It frightened me, and I went out to look for him.
When I came upon him in our gardens, it was he who was frightened.
"Oh, dear," he exclaimed, "I thought you were John."
I have often seen Harry dirty--very dirty,--but from the mud on his
boots to the marks on his face where he had pushed the hair out of his
eyes with earthy fingers, I never saw him quite so grubby before. And
if there had been a clean place left in any part of his clothes well
away from the ground, that spot must have been soiled by a huge and
very dirty sack, under the weight of which his poor little shoulders
were bent nearly to his knees.
"What are you doing, Honest Root-gatherer?" I asked; "are you turning
yourself into a hump-backed dwarf?"
"I'm not honest, and I'm not a Root-gatherer just now," said Harry,
when he had got breath after setting down his load. He spoke shyly and
a little surlily, like Chris when he is in mischief.
"Harry, what's that?"
"It's a sack I borrowed from Michael. It won't hurt it, it's had
mangel-wurzels in already."
"What have you got in it now? It looks dreadfully heavy."
"It _is_ heavy, I can tell you," said Harry, with one more rub of his
dirty fingers over his face.
"You look half dead. What is it?"
"It's top-spit;" and Harry began to discharge his load on to the walk.
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