Tom touched his hat, and began to think what he ought to say.  “Houts!” says the thing again, “thou needn’t be feared o’ me; thou ’st done me a better turn than thou know’st, my lad, and I’ll do as much for thee.”  Tom couldn’t speak yet, but he thought; “Lord! for sure ’t is a bogle!”

“No!” says he as quick as quick, “I am no bogle, but ye ’d best not ask me what I be; anyways I be a good friend o’ thine.”  Tom’s very knee-bones struck, for certainly an ordinary body couldn’t have known what he’d been thinking to himself, but he looked so kind like, and spoke so fair, that he made bold to get out, a bit quavery like—­

“Might I be axing to know your honour’s name?”

“H’m,” says he, pulling his beard; “as for that”—­and he thought a bit—­“ay so,” he went on at last, “Yallery Brown thou mayst call me, Yallery Brown; ’t is my nature seest thou, and as for a name ’t will do as any other.  Yallery Brown, Tom, Yallery Brown’s thy friend, my lad.”

“Thankee, master,” says Tom, quite meek like.

“And now,” he says, “I’m in a hurry to-night, but tell me quick, what’ll I do for thee?  Wilt have a wife?  I can give thee the finest lass in the town.  Wilt be rich?  I’ll give thee gold as much as thou can carry.  Or wilt have help wi’ thy work?  Only say the word.”

Tom scratched his head.  “Well, as for a wife, I have no hankering after such; they’re but bothersome bodies, and I have women folk at home as ’ll mend my clouts; and for gold that’s as may be, but for work, there, I can’t abide work, and if thou ‘lt give me a helpin’ hand in it I’ll thank—­”

“Stop,” says he, quick as lightning, “I’ll help thee and welcome, but if ever thou sayest that to me—­if ever thou thankest me, see’st thou, thou ’lt never see me more.  Mind that now; I want no thanks, I’ll have no thanks;” and he stampt his tiddy foot on the earth and looked as wicked as a raging bull.

“Mind that now, great lump that thou be,” he went on, calming down a bit, “and if ever thou need’st help, or get’st into trouble, call on me and just say, ‘Yallery Brown, come from the mools, I want thee!’ and I’ll be wi’ thee at once; and now,” says he, picking a dandelion puff, “good-night to thee,” and he blowed it up, and it all came into Tom’s eyne and ears.  Soon as Tom could see again the tiddy creature was gone, and but for the stone on end and the hole at his feet, he’d have thought he’d been dreaming.

Well, Tom went home and to bed; and by the morning he’d nigh forgot all about it.  But when he went to the work, there was none to do! all was done already, the horses seen to, the stables cleaned out, everything in its proper place, and he’d nothing to do but sit with his hands in his pockets.  And so it went on day after day, all the work done by Yallery Brown, and better done, too, than he could have done it himself.  And if the master gave him more work, he sat down, and the work did itself, the 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.