"Twenty pounds or none, I will go down over Lewthwaite Crag, if
it's only for the poor boy's sake. For he was as civil a spoken
little chap as ever climbed a flue."

So down over Lewthwaite Crag he went: a very smart groom he was at
the top, and a very shabby one at the bottom; for he tore his
gaiters, and he tore his breeches, and he tore his jacket, and he
burst his braces, and he burst his boots, and he lost his hat, and
what was worst of all, he lost his shirt pin, which he prized very
much, for it was gold, and he had won it in a raffle at Malton, and
there was a figure at the top of it, of t'ould mare, noble old
Beeswing herself, as natural as life; so it was a really severe
loss: but he never saw anything of Tom.

And all the while Sir John and the rest were riding round, full
three miles to the right, and back again, to get into Vendale, and
to the foot of the crag.

When they came to the old dame's school, all the children came out
to see. And the old dame came out too; and when she saw Sir John,
she curtsied very low, for she was a tenant of his.

"Well, dame, and how are you?" said Sir John.

"Blessings on you as broad as your back, Harthover," says she--she
didn't call him Sir John, but only Harthover, for that is the
fashion in the North country--"and welcome into Vendale: but
you're no hunting the fox this time of the year?"