AUTUMN winds were blowing in Northcliffe, and the streets and lanes were thickly strewn with the fallen leaves. It was a cold, damp afternoon, and everything looked dull and cheerless—everything and everybody, with one exception, and that was a boy about twelve years of age who was half running, half walking along the lane leading from Greychurch to Northcliffe and who whistled merrily as he went along, a strongly built lad, tall for his age, with a fair, ruddy Saxon face. He was well known in Northcliffe, and everybody had a good word to say for him. Always ready to do a kind turn for any one, every little child liked George Horbrook; and every dog in the town wagged his tail as the good-na…
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