Ruminating to this effect on the brilliant future in reserve for him, David by the help of his check-string kept himself on the alert to seize the time of earliest dawn for his rising and departure.  His brothers, of course, were early risers, but he should anticipate them by at least an hour and a half, and the little room which he had to himself as only an occasional visitor, had its window over the horse-block, so that he could slip out through the window without the least difficulty.  Jacob, the horrible Jacob, had an awkward trick of getting up before everybody else, to stem his hunger by emptying the milk-bowl that was “duly set” for him; but of late he had taken to sleeping in the hay-loft, and if he came into the house, it would be on the opposite side to that from which David was making his exit.  There was no need to think of Jacob; yet David was liberal enough to bestow a curse on him—­it was the only thing he ever did bestow gratuitously.  His small bundle of clothes was ready packed, and he was soon treading lightly on the steps of the horse-block, soon walking at a smart pace across the fields towards the thicket.  It would take him no more than two minutes to get out the box; he could make out the tree it was under by the pale strip where the bark was off, although the dawning light was rather dimmer in the thicket.  But what, in the name of—­burnt pastry—­was that large body with a staff planted beside it, close at the foot of the ash-tree?  David paused, not to make up his mind as to the nature of the apparition—­he had not the happiness of doubting for a moment that the staff was Jacob’s pitchfork—­but to gather the self-command necessary for addressing his brother with a sufficiently honeyed accent.  Jacob was absorbed in scratching up the earth, and had not heard David’s approach.

“I say, Jacob,” said David in a loud whisper, just as the tin box was lifted out of the hole.

Jacob looked up, and discerning his sweet-flavoured brother, nodded and grinned in the dim light in a way that made him seem to David like a triumphant demon.  If he had been of an impetuous disposition, he would have snatched the pitchfork from the ground and impaled this fraternal demon.  But David was by no means impetuous; he was a young man greatly given to calculate consequences, a habit which has been held to be the foundation of virtue.  But somehow it had not precisely that effect in David:  he calculated whether an action would harm himself, or whether it would only harm other people.  In the former case he was very timid about satisfying his immediate desires, but in the latter he would risk the result with much courage.

“Give it me, Jacob,” he said, stooping down and patting his brother.  “Let us see.”

Jacob, finding the lid rather tight, gave the box to his brother in perfect faith.  David raised the lids and shook his head, while Jacob put his finger in and took out a guinea to taste whether the metamorphosis into lozenges was complete and satisfactory.