singeing irons, or the broom, or what not, set to, and with ne'er a hand
put to it would get through in no time. For he never saw Yallery Brown
in daylight; only in the darklins he saw him hopping about, like a
Will-o-th'-wyke without his lanthorn.

At first 't was mighty fine for Tom; he'd nought to do and good pay for
it; but by-and-by things began to grow vicey-varsy. If the work was done
for Tom, 't was undone for the other lads; if his buckets were filled,
theirs were upset; if his tools were sharpened, theirs were blunted and
spoiled; if his horses were clean as daisies, theirs were splashed with
muck, and so on; day in and day out, 't was the same. And the lads saw
Yallery Brown flitting about o' nights, and they saw the things working
without hands o' days, and they saw that Tom's work was done for him,
and theirs undone for them; and naturally they begun to look shy on him,
and they wouldn't speak or come nigh him, and they carried tales to the
master and so things went from bad to worse.

For Tom could do nothing himself; the brooms wouldn't stay in his hand,
the plough ran away from him, the hoe kept out of his grip. He thought
that he'd do his own work after all, so that Yallery Brown would leave
him and his neighbours alone. But he couldn't--true as death he
couldn't. He could only sit by and look on, and have the cold shoulder
turned on him, while the unnatural thing was meddling with the others,
and working for him.

At last, things got so bad that the master gave Tom the sack, and if he
hadn't, all the rest of the lads would have sacked him, for they swore
they'd not stay on the same garth with Tom. Well, naturally Tom felt
bad; 't was a very good place, and good pay too; and he was fair mad
with Yallery Brown, as 'd got him into such a trouble. So Tom shook his