Chapter XV.
Their first host.
As the evening drew on, and began to settle down into night, a new
care arose in the mind of the elder boy. Where were they to pass the
darkness?--how find shelter for sleep? It was a question that gave
Tommy no anxiety. He had been on the tramp often, now with one party,
now with another of his granny's lodgers, and had frequently slept in
the open air, or under the rudest covert. Tommy had not much
imagination to trouble him, and in his present moral condition was
possibly better without it; but to inexperienced Clare there was
something fearful in having the night come so close to him. Sleep out
of doors he had never thought of. To lie down with the stars looking
at him, nothing but the blue wind between him and them, was like being
naked to the very soul. Doubtless there would be creatures about, to
share the night with him, and protect him from its awful bareness; but
they would be few for the size of the room, and he might see none of
them! It was the sense of emptiness, the lack of present life that
dismayed him. He had never seen any creatures to shrink from. He
disliked no one of the things that creep or walk or fly. Before long
he did come to know and dislike at least one sort; and the sea held
creatures that in after years made him shudder; but as yet, not even
rats, so terrible to many, were a terror to Clare. It was Nothing that
he feared.
My reader may say, "But had no one taught him about God?" Yes, he had
heard about God, and about Jesus Christ; had heard a great deal about
them. But they always seemed persons a long way off. He knew, or
thought he knew, that God was everywhere, but he had never felt his
presence a reality. He seemed in no place where Clare's eyes ever
fell. He never thought, "God is here." Perhaps the sparrows knew more
about God than he did then. When he looked out into the night it
always seemed vacant, therefore horrid, and he took it for as empty as
it looked. And if there had been no God there, it would have been
reasonable indeed to be afraid; for the most frightful of notions is
_Nothing-at-all_.
It grew dark, and they were falling asleep on their walking legs, when
they came to a barn-yard. Very glad were they to creep into it, and
search for the warmest place. It was a quiet part of the country, and
for years nothing had been stolen from anybody, so that the people
were not so watchful as in many places.
They went prowling about, but even Tommy with innocent intent, eager
only after a little warmth, and as much sleep as they could find, and
came at length to an open window, through which they crawled into
what, by the smell and the noises, they knew to be a stable. It was
very dark, but Clare was at home, and felt his way about; while Tommy,
who was afraid of the horses, held close to him. Clare's hand fell
upon the hind-quarters of a large well-fed horse. The huge animal was
asleep standing, but at the touch of the small hand he gave a low
whinny. Tommy shuddered at the sound.
"He's pleased," said Clare, and crept up on his near side into the
stall. There he had soon made such friends with him, that he did not
hesitate to get in among the hay the horse had for his supper.
"Here, Tommy!" he cried in a whisper; "there's room for us both in the
manger."
But Tommy stood shaking. He fancied the darkness full of horses'
heads, and would not stir. Clare had to get out again, and search for
a place to suit his fancy, which he found in an untenanted loose-box,
with remains of litter. There Tommy coiled himself up, and was soon
fast asleep.
Clare returned to the hospitality of the big horse. The great nostrils
snuffed him over and over as he lay, and the boy knew the horse made
him welcome. He dropped asleep stroking the muzzle of his
chamber-fellow, and slept all the night, kept warm by the horse's
breath, and the near furnace of his great body.
In the morning the boys found they had slept too long, for they were
discovered. But though they were promptly ejected as vagabonds, and
not without a few kicks and cuffs, these were not administered without
the restraint of some mercy, for their appearance tended to move pity
rather than indignation.
