Chapter Thirty.“Now to prove the success of the magical trick,” said the Vicar, as they all rose from the table, and walked across to the old mill. “Really, Brandon, honestly I never felt so much interest in chemistry before, and I feel quite disposed to take it up where one left off at college. But oh, dear, how little time one has!”“True,” said Uncle Richard, “the days always seem too short to a busy man. Now, Tom, let’s look and see whether we have succeeded or failed.”“Succeeded,” cried Tom excitedly, when the heavy fragment of the speculum was lifted out of the hot sunshine perfectly dry, and laid flat upon the bench. “Look, Mr Maxted, you can see that it is silvered all over.”“Yes; a dull, dingy coating of silver,” said the Vicar, who had put on his glasses and was now leaning over the glass. “Wonderful indeed. And now, I suppose, you polish this metal face, and make it like a looking-glass?”“Yes, with leather and rouge,” said Uncle Richard, as he too put on his glasses and examined the surface carefully. “But there is something wrong about it.”“Wrong? Oh no, uncle; that stuff has all turned to silver plainly enough,” cried Tom.“True, boy, but my instructions tell me that the result ought to be a bright metallic surface of a golden rosy hue, and that a very little polishing should make it brilliant.”“Perhaps this will be,” said the Vicar, “when it is polished.”“I’m afraid not,” said Uncle Richard. “There is a hitch somewhere. Either I have made some error in the quantities of my chemicals, or I have left the glass in the solution too long, with the result that the silver has become coated with the dirty-looking precipitation left when the metallic silver is thrown down. However, we are very near success, and we’ll polish and see what result we get. Now, Tom, up into the laboratory, and bring down from the second shelf that small bottle of rouge, the packet of cotton-wool, and the roll of fine chamois leather. One moment—the scissors too, and the ball of twine.”Tom ran up-stairs, found the articles required, and was about to descend, when, glancing from the window, he caught sight of Pete Warboys, who had raised himself by getting his toes in some inequality of the wall, and was now resting his folded arms upon the top and his chin upon them, staring hard at the mill.“Oh, how I should like to be behind him with a stick!” thought Tom; and he laughed to himself as he turned away and went down, to find that his uncle had just uncovered the great speculum they had ground and polished, where it stood upon a stout shelf at the far side of the workshop, and was pointing out its perfections to the Vicar.“Yes, Brandon,” said the latter, “I suppose it is very beautiful in its shaping, but to me it is only a disc of glass. So you are going to silver that?”“When I am sure of what I am doing,” replied Uncle Richard. “I must experimentalise once or twice more first. Here, Tom, set those things down and come here. I don’t like this glass to lie upon the shelf. We’ll lay a board down here, and turn the speculum face downwards upon the floor.”Tom hurried to his uncle’s side, and after the board had been laid upon the floor, and covered with a soft cloth and several sheets of paper, the speculum was carefully lifted, turned over face downwards, covered with another cloth, and left close to the wall.“No fear of that falling any farther,” said Uncle Richard, smiling, as he crossed the workshop deliberately. “Now for the polishing.”He cut off a piece of the soft, delicate leather, about three inches square, made a ball-like pad of cotton-wool, and covered it with the leather, and then tied the ends tightly with some of the twine, making what resembled a soft leather ball with a handle, and patted it in his hand so as to flatten it a little.“Now then,” he said, “this is to be another magic touch. If I succeed, you will see your faces brilliantly reflected in the glass; if I fail—”“If you fail,” said the Vicar, laughing, “I can’t apply Lord Lytton’s words to you. If it were Tom, I should say, ‘In the bright lexicon of youth, there is no such word as fail.’”“Very well then, though no longer youthful, I’ll take the words to myself. Now then for the magic touch that shall change this dull opaque silver to glistening, dazzling light.”He held the leather polisher over the glass for a few moments, and then, as the others looked on, he let it fall smartly upon the silvered face, covered with greyish powder, and began to rub it smartly, when—Crash!One cutting, tearing, deafening, sharp, metallic-sounding explosion, that seemed to shake the old mill to its foundations; the windows were blown out; bottles, vessels, and tray were shivered, and the glass flew tinkling in all directions; and then an awful silence, succeeded by a strange singing noise in the ears, through which, as Tom struggled half-stunned and helpless to his feet, he could hear a loud shrieking and yelling for help.“What has happened? what, has happened?” he muttered, as he clapped his hands to his ears, and tried to look about him; but his eyes had been temporarily blinded by the brilliant flash of light which had blazed through the workshop, and some moments elapsed before he could make out whence came a moaning—“Oh dear me, oh dear me!”Then he dimly saw the Vicar seated on the floor against the wall, holding his hands to his ears, and rocking himself gently to and fro.Hardly had Tom realised this when he caught sight of Richard Brandon upon his side in the middle of the place, perfectly motionless; and, with his ears singing horribly, the boy ran to his uncle’s side, and tried to raise his head.And all the while the shrieking and cries for help came from the outside, mingled now with the trampling of feet.Then, sounding muffled and strange, and as if from a great distance, Tom heard David’s voice.“What is it? where are you hurt?”“Oh, all over,” came in Pete’s voice; “I was a-lookin’ over the wall and they shot me with a big gun.”“Yah!” cried David, as if still at a great distance, but his words sounded with peculiar distinctness through the metallic ringing. “Shootin’! It was a thunderbolt struck the mill.”“Oh, what is the matter?” came now in Mrs Fidler’s voice.“Thunderbolt, mum; I saw the flash,” cried David; and as Tom still held up his uncle’s head, and knelt there confused, half-stunned and helpless, Mrs Fidler’s voice rose again.“Quick! help them before the place falls. Master! poor master! Mr Maxted—Master Tom!”Then came the sound of hurrying feet, and as Tom looked up, to see the ceiling above him come crumbling down, more questioning voices were heard outside, and Pete’s voice rose again.“They shot me with a big gun—they shot me with a big gun.”“Master! master!” shrieked Mrs Fidler. “Oh, there you are! Oh, Master Tom, don’t say he’s dead.”Tom shook his head feebly; he could not say anything. Then, as he felt himself lifted up, he heard the Vicar say—“Oh dear me; I don’t know—I’m afraid I’m a good deal hurt.”Then quite a cloud gathered about them, and with his ears still singing, Tom felt himself lifted out, water was sprinkled over his face, and he began to see things more clearly; but every word spoken sounded small and distant, while the faces of David, Mrs Fidler, and the people who gathered about them in a scared way looked misty and strange. Then he heard the Vicar’s voice.“Thank you—yes, thank you,” he said; “I’m getting better.”“Bones broke, sir?” said David.“No, I think not; see to poor Mr Brandon. I was thrown against the wall, right across; I can’t quite get my breath yet, and I’m as if I was deaf. Ah, Tom, my boy, how are you?”“I don’t know, sir, I don’t think I’m hurt; but ask the people not to shout so, it goes through my head.” Then, as if he had suddenly recollected something, “Where’s uncle?”“He’s coming to, my dear,” said Mrs Fidler. “I think he’s coming to.”And now Tom saw that they were lying on the newly-made grass-plot outside the mill, and that his uncle was being attended by Mrs Fidler and another woman.He tried to get to him, but the slightest effort made his head swim, and he was fain to lie still and listen, while David went on talking excitedly.“I was down the garden digging up the first crop o’ taters, when I see a flash o’ lightning, and then came a clap o’ thunder as sharp as the crack of a whip. It made my ears sing. Then as I run to see, I hears Pete Warboys yelling out—‘They shot me with a big gun—they shot me with a big gun.’”“Hadn’t some one better fetch the doctor?” said a fresh voice.“He’s gone out,” cried another.“Shot me with a big gun,” yelled Pete again.“Thank you, yes, thank you,” came now in a voice which made Tom Blount’s heart leap. “I don’t think I am much hurt. Where is my boy Tom?”“I’m all right, uncle,” cried the boy eagerly, though he felt very far from being so; and he heard a few murmured words of thankfulness.“Where is Mr Maxted?”“I am here,” said the Vicar, “not much hurt. But tell me, how are your eyes?”“Rather dim and misty. But what was it?” said Uncle Richard, rather feebly; “an explosion?”“Shot me with a big gun—shot me with a big gun.”“Will some one put a tater in that boy’s ugly mouth,” cried David indignantly. “I tell yer all it was thunder and lightning. I saw one and heard t’other, both sharp together.”“Yes, yes, yes. Didn’t I always tell you so?” cried a shrill voice; and Tom looked round, to dimly make out Mother Warboys bending over her grandson, who was now sitting on the grass close under the wall, where he had been placed. “I always said it. His punishment’s come at last for all his wicked tricks and evil dealings.”“And one in hers too,” cried David. “A wicked old sinner! Hold your tongue, will you!”“Nay, nay, I’ll hold no tongue,” cried Mother Warboys. “He’s a wicked man-witch, and allays doing evil and making charms.”“Shot me with a big gun, granny.”“Hold thy tongue, boy. It’s come to him at last—it’s come to him at last. I always telled ye that he was a bad, wicked one. Now he’s punished.”“Oh dear me! I cannot put up with this,” muttered the Vicar. “David, my good fellow, give me your hand. Thank you—that’s better. I think I can stand now. Oh, yes. That’s right; but I’ve lost my glasses.”“Here they are, sir,” said a voice, “but they’re all crushed to bits.”“Then I must do without them, I suppose.”“An old wicked one, who buys up mills and starves the poor, so that he may go on in his evil ways. I told you all so, but it’s come to him at last.”“Oh dear me!” ejaculated the Vicar. “Keep my arm, David. Here, you sir, get up.”“Shot me with a gun—shot me with a gun,” yelled Pete, who had got hold of one form of complaint, and kept to it.“Silence, sir! It’s all nonsense; no one fired a gun.”“Yes; shot me, and knocked me off the wall.”“Is he hurt?” asked the Vicar, as Uncle Richard now sat up.“Don’t think so, sir,” said one of the village people. “We can’t find nothing the matter with him.”“I told you so—I told you all so,” continued Mother Warboys, waving her stick.“And I tell you so,” cried the Vicar angrily. “Go along home, you wicked old she Shimei. How dare you come cursing here when your poor neighbours are in trouble!”“I—I—I don’t care—I will say it,” cried Mother Warboys.“You dare to say another word, and you shall have no dole next Sunday,” cried the Vicar angrily.“I—I don’t care; I say it’s come home to him at last. I always said it would.”“Yes, you wicked old creature; and in spite of your vanity you are not a prophetess. Take that old woman home,” cried the Vicar fiercely; but no one stirred.“What, are you all afraid of her?”“She’ll get cursing and ill-wishing us if we do, sir,” said one of the men present.“I’ll take her home, sir,” cried David. “Don’t s’pose she’ll hurt me much if she do. Come along, old lady, and you, Pete, take hold of her other arm.”Pete obeyed, and seemed to forget his injuries, taking Mother Warboys’ other arm, and helping her out of the yard, she saying no more, but shaking her head, and muttering that she “always knowed how it would be.”By this time Uncle Richard was sufficiently recovered to walk about; and, beckoning Tom to him, he took his arm and went into the workshop, where the silvered piece of speculum lay shattered; and in addition to the windows being broken, the bench was split from end to end, and a table and stools knocked over.“Look at the speculum, Tom. Is it hurt?”Tom’s ears were still ringing as he crossed to where they had laid the disc of glass face downwards; and on uncovering it, he found it uninjured, and said so, making his uncle draw a deep breath as if much relieved.“Now lock up the place, Tom,” he said, “and let’s go indoors. I am too much shaken to say much, so ask Mr Maxted to request the people to go away now, and then you can fasten the gate.”“Think she’ll tumble down, sir?” said a voice at the door; and they turned to find David back panting and breathless. “Took her home, sir. She kep’ on chuntering all the way, but parson frightened her about the dole, and she never said a cross word. But think the mill ’ll come down?”“Oh no, David,” said Uncle Richard quietly; “there is no fear. Is that boy much hurt?”“Him, sir? Tchah! There’s nothing the matter with him. The shock knocked him off the wall, and he lay howling, expecting some one to give him a shilling to put him right. He’d forgotten all about it before he got home, and began to quarrel with his granny.”“Help to lock up,” said Uncle Richard; and, leaving Tom free to speak to the people, and ask them to disperse, he laid his hand on David’s arm.Ten minutes later the people were all out of the yard, and hanging about in the lane discussing the thunderbolt, as they called it, that had fallen, some declaring that the worst always came out of a clear sky, while others declared that they’d “never seed thunder and lightning without clouds.”On the whole, they were rather disappointed that more mischief had not been done. The burning of the mill, for instance, or its crumbling down, would have made the affair more exciting, whereas there were some broken windows to look at, and that was all.Meanwhile the scientific people had adjourned to the cottage, where warm water and clothes-brushes did a good deal to restore them to their former state, while a cup of tea hurriedly prepared by Mrs Fidler did something toward soothing their shattered nerves.“But really, sir, I think you ought to let me send over to Buildston for Doctor Ranson.”“Not for me, Mrs Fidler,” said Uncle Richard. “I’ve been a good deal shaken, and my ears are full of a sharp singing sound, but I’m rapidly coming round. Send for him to see Mr Maxted.”“Oh dear me, no. I’m very much better,” said the Vicar. “I was very much frightened, and I have a lump on the back of my head, but that is all. You had better send for him, I think, to see Master Tom here.”“I don’t want any doctor,” exclaimed Tom. “Mrs Fidler could put me right.”“Yes, my dear,” cried the housekeeper; “but you never will let me.”“Well, who’s going to take prune tea or brimstone and treacle because he has been knocked down?”“There, Mrs Fidler, you hear,” said Uncle Richard; “we have had a narrow escape, but I don’t think any of us are much the worse. We only want rest. Take the couch, Maxted, and lie down.”“Well—er—really,” said the Vicar; “if you will not think it selfish of me, I believe it would do my head good if I lay down for an hour. I am a good deal shaken.”Mrs Fidler sighed and left the room as the Vicar took the couch, Uncle Richard one easy-chair, and Tom the other, to lie back and listen to the murmur of voices out in the lane, where the village people were still discussing the startling affair. Every now and then some excited personage raised his voice, and a word or two floated through the window about “lightning,” and “heared it,” and “mussy no one was killed.”Uncle Richard was the first to break the silence by saying dryly—“I’m afraid Mrs Fidler does not believe in the thunder and lightning theory.”“No?” said the Vicar, turning his head.“No,” said Uncle Richard, smiling, but wincing at the same time; “she has had experience of me before in my dabblings in other things. What do you say was the cause of the trouble, Tom?”“Well, I should say, uncle, that the silver was too strong for the glass, and made it split all to pieces.”“Not a bad theory,” said Uncle Richard. “What do you say, Maxted?”“Well,” said the Vicar, “do you know, I’m puzzled. Of course it was not an electric shock, and my knowledge of chemistry is so very shallow; but really and truly, I feel convinced, that you must have got hold of wrong chemicals, and formed some new and dangerous explosive compound.”“Quite right, only it was not new,” said Uncle Richard. “As soon as I could collect my shattered thinking powers, I began to consider about what I had done, and I think I see correctly now. The fact is, I forgot one very important part of the instructions I have for silvering mirrors.”“Indeed!” said the Vicar, in an inquiring tone, while Tom pricked up his singing ears.“Yes,” said Uncle Richard. “You remember how the silvery surface was covered with a greyish powder?”“Yes, thickly,” said Tom.“That had no business there, and it would not have been if I had been more careful to remember everything. When I took the speculum glass out of the silvering bath, I ought to have deluged it with pure water till all that greyish powder was washed away, then it would have been fairly bright.”“Yes, uncle; but what has that to do with the explosion?”“Everything, my boy. If there had been no powder there we should have had no explosion.”“But it wasn’t gunpowder, uncle,” cried Tom, “it couldn’t be. I know what gunpowder’s made of—nitre, brimstone, and charcoal; and besides, we had no light.”“No, Tom, but it was a mixture far stronger than gunpowder, and one which will explode with a very slight friction.”“I know,” cried the Vicar eagerly, “fulminate of silver.”“Quite right,” said Uncle Richard; “and I feel quite ashamed of my ignorance. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing; and I ought to have known that in this process I was preparing so dangerous a compound.”“I know,” cried Tom now; “fulminate of silver is what they put in percussion caps, isn’t it, uncle?”“No; that is a very similar compound, but it is fulminate of mercury.—Well, Maxted, what am I to say to you for trying to kill you?”“I think you had better say nothing,” said the Vicar quietly. “It seems to me that the less we talk about it the better, and content ourselves with being thankful for our escape.”“It’s lucky, uncle, that it missed the big speculum, and a lot more stuff being used.”“Fortunate indeed, Tom. We must be more careful next time.”“But surely you will not try so dangerous an experiment again?” said the Vicar anxiously.“Certainly I shall,” said Uncle Richard. “The experiment is not in the least dangerous if properly carried out. The accident was from my ignorance. I know better now.”“You’ve paid very dearly for your experience,” said the Vicar, smiling. “It’s rather hard upon your friends, though, to try such risky experiments in their presence.”“Next time all will go well. Will you come and see it?”“Really, my dear Brandon, I respect you very much, as my principal parishioner, and a man after my own heart, but I’m afraid I shall be too busy to come next time. I’ll wait till the big telescope is ready for use, when I shall want to peep through; but even then I shall approach it with fear and trembling. It will look like a great gun, and I shall always feel afraid of its going off.”“And you, Tom,” said his uncle, “what do you say?”“What about, uncle?”“Shall you be afraid to come and help silver another time?”“Oh no, uncle, I think not,” replied the boy. “But I say, will my ears leave off?”“What, listening?”“No, uncle; it’s just as if I’d got a little tiny muffin-man ringing his bell in each ear as hard as he can go.”“Try a night’s rest,” said Uncle Richard. “Yes, I’m very sorry we had such a mishap.”“Never mind,” said the Vicar; “it will give our little glazier a job. And now I feel rested and better, so good-evening, I’m going home.”
“Now to prove the success of the magical trick,” said the Vicar, as they all rose from the table, and walked across to the old mill. “Really, Brandon, honestly I never felt so much interest in chemistry before, and I feel quite disposed to take it up where one left off at college. But oh, dear, how little time one has!”
“True,” said Uncle Richard, “the days always seem too short to a busy man. Now, Tom, let’s look and see whether we have succeeded or failed.”
“Succeeded,” cried Tom excitedly, when the heavy fragment of the speculum was lifted out of the hot sunshine perfectly dry, and laid flat upon the bench. “Look, Mr Maxted, you can see that it is silvered all over.”
“Yes; a dull, dingy coating of silver,” said the Vicar, who had put on his glasses and was now leaning over the glass. “Wonderful indeed. And now, I suppose, you polish this metal face, and make it like a looking-glass?”
“Yes, with leather and rouge,” said Uncle Richard, as he too put on his glasses and examined the surface carefully. “But there is something wrong about it.”
“Wrong? Oh no, uncle; that stuff has all turned to silver plainly enough,” cried Tom.
“True, boy, but my instructions tell me that the result ought to be a bright metallic surface of a golden rosy hue, and that a very little polishing should make it brilliant.”
“Perhaps this will be,” said the Vicar, “when it is polished.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Uncle Richard. “There is a hitch somewhere. Either I have made some error in the quantities of my chemicals, or I have left the glass in the solution too long, with the result that the silver has become coated with the dirty-looking precipitation left when the metallic silver is thrown down. However, we are very near success, and we’ll polish and see what result we get. Now, Tom, up into the laboratory, and bring down from the second shelf that small bottle of rouge, the packet of cotton-wool, and the roll of fine chamois leather. One moment—the scissors too, and the ball of twine.”
Tom ran up-stairs, found the articles required, and was about to descend, when, glancing from the window, he caught sight of Pete Warboys, who had raised himself by getting his toes in some inequality of the wall, and was now resting his folded arms upon the top and his chin upon them, staring hard at the mill.
“Oh, how I should like to be behind him with a stick!” thought Tom; and he laughed to himself as he turned away and went down, to find that his uncle had just uncovered the great speculum they had ground and polished, where it stood upon a stout shelf at the far side of the workshop, and was pointing out its perfections to the Vicar.
“Yes, Brandon,” said the latter, “I suppose it is very beautiful in its shaping, but to me it is only a disc of glass. So you are going to silver that?”
“When I am sure of what I am doing,” replied Uncle Richard. “I must experimentalise once or twice more first. Here, Tom, set those things down and come here. I don’t like this glass to lie upon the shelf. We’ll lay a board down here, and turn the speculum face downwards upon the floor.”
Tom hurried to his uncle’s side, and after the board had been laid upon the floor, and covered with a soft cloth and several sheets of paper, the speculum was carefully lifted, turned over face downwards, covered with another cloth, and left close to the wall.
“No fear of that falling any farther,” said Uncle Richard, smiling, as he crossed the workshop deliberately. “Now for the polishing.”
He cut off a piece of the soft, delicate leather, about three inches square, made a ball-like pad of cotton-wool, and covered it with the leather, and then tied the ends tightly with some of the twine, making what resembled a soft leather ball with a handle, and patted it in his hand so as to flatten it a little.
“Now then,” he said, “this is to be another magic touch. If I succeed, you will see your faces brilliantly reflected in the glass; if I fail—”
“If you fail,” said the Vicar, laughing, “I can’t apply Lord Lytton’s words to you. If it were Tom, I should say, ‘In the bright lexicon of youth, there is no such word as fail.’”
“Very well then, though no longer youthful, I’ll take the words to myself. Now then for the magic touch that shall change this dull opaque silver to glistening, dazzling light.”
He held the leather polisher over the glass for a few moments, and then, as the others looked on, he let it fall smartly upon the silvered face, covered with greyish powder, and began to rub it smartly, when—
Crash!
One cutting, tearing, deafening, sharp, metallic-sounding explosion, that seemed to shake the old mill to its foundations; the windows were blown out; bottles, vessels, and tray were shivered, and the glass flew tinkling in all directions; and then an awful silence, succeeded by a strange singing noise in the ears, through which, as Tom struggled half-stunned and helpless to his feet, he could hear a loud shrieking and yelling for help.
“What has happened? what, has happened?” he muttered, as he clapped his hands to his ears, and tried to look about him; but his eyes had been temporarily blinded by the brilliant flash of light which had blazed through the workshop, and some moments elapsed before he could make out whence came a moaning—“Oh dear me, oh dear me!”
Then he dimly saw the Vicar seated on the floor against the wall, holding his hands to his ears, and rocking himself gently to and fro.
Hardly had Tom realised this when he caught sight of Richard Brandon upon his side in the middle of the place, perfectly motionless; and, with his ears singing horribly, the boy ran to his uncle’s side, and tried to raise his head.
And all the while the shrieking and cries for help came from the outside, mingled now with the trampling of feet.
Then, sounding muffled and strange, and as if from a great distance, Tom heard David’s voice.
“What is it? where are you hurt?”
“Oh, all over,” came in Pete’s voice; “I was a-lookin’ over the wall and they shot me with a big gun.”
“Yah!” cried David, as if still at a great distance, but his words sounded with peculiar distinctness through the metallic ringing. “Shootin’! It was a thunderbolt struck the mill.”
“Oh, what is the matter?” came now in Mrs Fidler’s voice.
“Thunderbolt, mum; I saw the flash,” cried David; and as Tom still held up his uncle’s head, and knelt there confused, half-stunned and helpless, Mrs Fidler’s voice rose again.
“Quick! help them before the place falls. Master! poor master! Mr Maxted—Master Tom!”
Then came the sound of hurrying feet, and as Tom looked up, to see the ceiling above him come crumbling down, more questioning voices were heard outside, and Pete’s voice rose again.
“They shot me with a big gun—they shot me with a big gun.”
“Master! master!” shrieked Mrs Fidler. “Oh, there you are! Oh, Master Tom, don’t say he’s dead.”
Tom shook his head feebly; he could not say anything. Then, as he felt himself lifted up, he heard the Vicar say—
“Oh dear me; I don’t know—I’m afraid I’m a good deal hurt.”
Then quite a cloud gathered about them, and with his ears still singing, Tom felt himself lifted out, water was sprinkled over his face, and he began to see things more clearly; but every word spoken sounded small and distant, while the faces of David, Mrs Fidler, and the people who gathered about them in a scared way looked misty and strange. Then he heard the Vicar’s voice.
“Thank you—yes, thank you,” he said; “I’m getting better.”
“Bones broke, sir?” said David.
“No, I think not; see to poor Mr Brandon. I was thrown against the wall, right across; I can’t quite get my breath yet, and I’m as if I was deaf. Ah, Tom, my boy, how are you?”
“I don’t know, sir, I don’t think I’m hurt; but ask the people not to shout so, it goes through my head.” Then, as if he had suddenly recollected something, “Where’s uncle?”
“He’s coming to, my dear,” said Mrs Fidler. “I think he’s coming to.”
And now Tom saw that they were lying on the newly-made grass-plot outside the mill, and that his uncle was being attended by Mrs Fidler and another woman.
He tried to get to him, but the slightest effort made his head swim, and he was fain to lie still and listen, while David went on talking excitedly.
“I was down the garden digging up the first crop o’ taters, when I see a flash o’ lightning, and then came a clap o’ thunder as sharp as the crack of a whip. It made my ears sing. Then as I run to see, I hears Pete Warboys yelling out—‘They shot me with a big gun—they shot me with a big gun.’”
“Hadn’t some one better fetch the doctor?” said a fresh voice.
“He’s gone out,” cried another.
“Shot me with a big gun,” yelled Pete again.
“Thank you, yes, thank you,” came now in a voice which made Tom Blount’s heart leap. “I don’t think I am much hurt. Where is my boy Tom?”
“I’m all right, uncle,” cried the boy eagerly, though he felt very far from being so; and he heard a few murmured words of thankfulness.
“Where is Mr Maxted?”
“I am here,” said the Vicar, “not much hurt. But tell me, how are your eyes?”
“Rather dim and misty. But what was it?” said Uncle Richard, rather feebly; “an explosion?”
“Shot me with a big gun—shot me with a big gun.”
“Will some one put a tater in that boy’s ugly mouth,” cried David indignantly. “I tell yer all it was thunder and lightning. I saw one and heard t’other, both sharp together.”
“Yes, yes, yes. Didn’t I always tell you so?” cried a shrill voice; and Tom looked round, to dimly make out Mother Warboys bending over her grandson, who was now sitting on the grass close under the wall, where he had been placed. “I always said it. His punishment’s come at last for all his wicked tricks and evil dealings.”
“And one in hers too,” cried David. “A wicked old sinner! Hold your tongue, will you!”
“Nay, nay, I’ll hold no tongue,” cried Mother Warboys. “He’s a wicked man-witch, and allays doing evil and making charms.”
“Shot me with a big gun, granny.”
“Hold thy tongue, boy. It’s come to him at last—it’s come to him at last. I always telled ye that he was a bad, wicked one. Now he’s punished.”
“Oh dear me! I cannot put up with this,” muttered the Vicar. “David, my good fellow, give me your hand. Thank you—that’s better. I think I can stand now. Oh, yes. That’s right; but I’ve lost my glasses.”
“Here they are, sir,” said a voice, “but they’re all crushed to bits.”
“Then I must do without them, I suppose.”
“An old wicked one, who buys up mills and starves the poor, so that he may go on in his evil ways. I told you all so, but it’s come to him at last.”
“Oh dear me!” ejaculated the Vicar. “Keep my arm, David. Here, you sir, get up.”
“Shot me with a gun—shot me with a gun,” yelled Pete, who had got hold of one form of complaint, and kept to it.
“Silence, sir! It’s all nonsense; no one fired a gun.”
“Yes; shot me, and knocked me off the wall.”
“Is he hurt?” asked the Vicar, as Uncle Richard now sat up.
“Don’t think so, sir,” said one of the village people. “We can’t find nothing the matter with him.”
“I told you so—I told you all so,” continued Mother Warboys, waving her stick.
“And I tell you so,” cried the Vicar angrily. “Go along home, you wicked old she Shimei. How dare you come cursing here when your poor neighbours are in trouble!”
“I—I—I don’t care—I will say it,” cried Mother Warboys.
“You dare to say another word, and you shall have no dole next Sunday,” cried the Vicar angrily.
“I—I don’t care; I say it’s come home to him at last. I always said it would.”
“Yes, you wicked old creature; and in spite of your vanity you are not a prophetess. Take that old woman home,” cried the Vicar fiercely; but no one stirred.
“What, are you all afraid of her?”
“She’ll get cursing and ill-wishing us if we do, sir,” said one of the men present.
“I’ll take her home, sir,” cried David. “Don’t s’pose she’ll hurt me much if she do. Come along, old lady, and you, Pete, take hold of her other arm.”
Pete obeyed, and seemed to forget his injuries, taking Mother Warboys’ other arm, and helping her out of the yard, she saying no more, but shaking her head, and muttering that she “always knowed how it would be.”
By this time Uncle Richard was sufficiently recovered to walk about; and, beckoning Tom to him, he took his arm and went into the workshop, where the silvered piece of speculum lay shattered; and in addition to the windows being broken, the bench was split from end to end, and a table and stools knocked over.
“Look at the speculum, Tom. Is it hurt?”
Tom’s ears were still ringing as he crossed to where they had laid the disc of glass face downwards; and on uncovering it, he found it uninjured, and said so, making his uncle draw a deep breath as if much relieved.
“Now lock up the place, Tom,” he said, “and let’s go indoors. I am too much shaken to say much, so ask Mr Maxted to request the people to go away now, and then you can fasten the gate.”
“Think she’ll tumble down, sir?” said a voice at the door; and they turned to find David back panting and breathless. “Took her home, sir. She kep’ on chuntering all the way, but parson frightened her about the dole, and she never said a cross word. But think the mill ’ll come down?”
“Oh no, David,” said Uncle Richard quietly; “there is no fear. Is that boy much hurt?”
“Him, sir? Tchah! There’s nothing the matter with him. The shock knocked him off the wall, and he lay howling, expecting some one to give him a shilling to put him right. He’d forgotten all about it before he got home, and began to quarrel with his granny.”
“Help to lock up,” said Uncle Richard; and, leaving Tom free to speak to the people, and ask them to disperse, he laid his hand on David’s arm.
Ten minutes later the people were all out of the yard, and hanging about in the lane discussing the thunderbolt, as they called it, that had fallen, some declaring that the worst always came out of a clear sky, while others declared that they’d “never seed thunder and lightning without clouds.”
On the whole, they were rather disappointed that more mischief had not been done. The burning of the mill, for instance, or its crumbling down, would have made the affair more exciting, whereas there were some broken windows to look at, and that was all.
Meanwhile the scientific people had adjourned to the cottage, where warm water and clothes-brushes did a good deal to restore them to their former state, while a cup of tea hurriedly prepared by Mrs Fidler did something toward soothing their shattered nerves.
“But really, sir, I think you ought to let me send over to Buildston for Doctor Ranson.”
“Not for me, Mrs Fidler,” said Uncle Richard. “I’ve been a good deal shaken, and my ears are full of a sharp singing sound, but I’m rapidly coming round. Send for him to see Mr Maxted.”
“Oh dear me, no. I’m very much better,” said the Vicar. “I was very much frightened, and I have a lump on the back of my head, but that is all. You had better send for him, I think, to see Master Tom here.”
“I don’t want any doctor,” exclaimed Tom. “Mrs Fidler could put me right.”
“Yes, my dear,” cried the housekeeper; “but you never will let me.”
“Well, who’s going to take prune tea or brimstone and treacle because he has been knocked down?”
“There, Mrs Fidler, you hear,” said Uncle Richard; “we have had a narrow escape, but I don’t think any of us are much the worse. We only want rest. Take the couch, Maxted, and lie down.”
“Well—er—really,” said the Vicar; “if you will not think it selfish of me, I believe it would do my head good if I lay down for an hour. I am a good deal shaken.”
Mrs Fidler sighed and left the room as the Vicar took the couch, Uncle Richard one easy-chair, and Tom the other, to lie back and listen to the murmur of voices out in the lane, where the village people were still discussing the startling affair. Every now and then some excited personage raised his voice, and a word or two floated through the window about “lightning,” and “heared it,” and “mussy no one was killed.”
Uncle Richard was the first to break the silence by saying dryly—
“I’m afraid Mrs Fidler does not believe in the thunder and lightning theory.”
“No?” said the Vicar, turning his head.
“No,” said Uncle Richard, smiling, but wincing at the same time; “she has had experience of me before in my dabblings in other things. What do you say was the cause of the trouble, Tom?”
“Well, I should say, uncle, that the silver was too strong for the glass, and made it split all to pieces.”
“Not a bad theory,” said Uncle Richard. “What do you say, Maxted?”
“Well,” said the Vicar, “do you know, I’m puzzled. Of course it was not an electric shock, and my knowledge of chemistry is so very shallow; but really and truly, I feel convinced, that you must have got hold of wrong chemicals, and formed some new and dangerous explosive compound.”
“Quite right, only it was not new,” said Uncle Richard. “As soon as I could collect my shattered thinking powers, I began to consider about what I had done, and I think I see correctly now. The fact is, I forgot one very important part of the instructions I have for silvering mirrors.”
“Indeed!” said the Vicar, in an inquiring tone, while Tom pricked up his singing ears.
“Yes,” said Uncle Richard. “You remember how the silvery surface was covered with a greyish powder?”
“Yes, thickly,” said Tom.
“That had no business there, and it would not have been if I had been more careful to remember everything. When I took the speculum glass out of the silvering bath, I ought to have deluged it with pure water till all that greyish powder was washed away, then it would have been fairly bright.”
“Yes, uncle; but what has that to do with the explosion?”
“Everything, my boy. If there had been no powder there we should have had no explosion.”
“But it wasn’t gunpowder, uncle,” cried Tom, “it couldn’t be. I know what gunpowder’s made of—nitre, brimstone, and charcoal; and besides, we had no light.”
“No, Tom, but it was a mixture far stronger than gunpowder, and one which will explode with a very slight friction.”
“I know,” cried the Vicar eagerly, “fulminate of silver.”
“Quite right,” said Uncle Richard; “and I feel quite ashamed of my ignorance. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing; and I ought to have known that in this process I was preparing so dangerous a compound.”
“I know,” cried Tom now; “fulminate of silver is what they put in percussion caps, isn’t it, uncle?”
“No; that is a very similar compound, but it is fulminate of mercury.—Well, Maxted, what am I to say to you for trying to kill you?”
“I think you had better say nothing,” said the Vicar quietly. “It seems to me that the less we talk about it the better, and content ourselves with being thankful for our escape.”
“It’s lucky, uncle, that it missed the big speculum, and a lot more stuff being used.”
“Fortunate indeed, Tom. We must be more careful next time.”
“But surely you will not try so dangerous an experiment again?” said the Vicar anxiously.
“Certainly I shall,” said Uncle Richard. “The experiment is not in the least dangerous if properly carried out. The accident was from my ignorance. I know better now.”
“You’ve paid very dearly for your experience,” said the Vicar, smiling. “It’s rather hard upon your friends, though, to try such risky experiments in their presence.”
“Next time all will go well. Will you come and see it?”
“Really, my dear Brandon, I respect you very much, as my principal parishioner, and a man after my own heart, but I’m afraid I shall be too busy to come next time. I’ll wait till the big telescope is ready for use, when I shall want to peep through; but even then I shall approach it with fear and trembling. It will look like a great gun, and I shall always feel afraid of its going off.”
“And you, Tom,” said his uncle, “what do you say?”
“What about, uncle?”
“Shall you be afraid to come and help silver another time?”
“Oh no, uncle, I think not,” replied the boy. “But I say, will my ears leave off?”
“What, listening?”
“No, uncle; it’s just as if I’d got a little tiny muffin-man ringing his bell in each ear as hard as he can go.”
“Try a night’s rest,” said Uncle Richard. “Yes, I’m very sorry we had such a mishap.”
“Never mind,” said the Vicar; “it will give our little glazier a job. And now I feel rested and better, so good-evening, I’m going home.”
Chapter Thirty One.Tom gave proof of his readiness a few days later, when the broken windows had been replaced, fresh solutions made, and the village had again calmed down to its regular natural state of repose; for, upon his uncle proposing that they should proceed at once to silver the big speculum, he eagerly went off to the workshop to get all ready for his uncle’s coming.Short as the distance was though, he did not get away without encountering Pete, who hurried up to the wall to shout over at him—“I know. Yer did shoot at me, but I shan’t forget it, so look out.”Then hearing some one coming from the cottage, he ducked down like a wild animal seeking concealment, and hurried away.Then the whole process was gone through to the smallest minutiae, and only an hour after the silvered face of the mirror was deluged with rain-water, and uncle and nephew gazed in triumph at their work, for there was no sign of greyish-drab powder about the mirror, and it was so bright that polishing seemed unnecessary.The next day it was polished, till by a side light it looked black, while in face it was a brilliant looking-glass ready to reflect the faintest stars; and after being put away securely, the great tube was set about, and in due time this was lightly and strongly made of long laths hooped together. A shallow tray was contrived deep enough to hold the speculum, and fitted with screws, so that it could be secured to one end. Next followed the fitting of a properly-constructed eye-piece from a London optician, contrived so that it looked at right angles into a small reflector, which also had to be carefully fixed in the axis of the great speculum.
Tom gave proof of his readiness a few days later, when the broken windows had been replaced, fresh solutions made, and the village had again calmed down to its regular natural state of repose; for, upon his uncle proposing that they should proceed at once to silver the big speculum, he eagerly went off to the workshop to get all ready for his uncle’s coming.
Short as the distance was though, he did not get away without encountering Pete, who hurried up to the wall to shout over at him—
“I know. Yer did shoot at me, but I shan’t forget it, so look out.”
Then hearing some one coming from the cottage, he ducked down like a wild animal seeking concealment, and hurried away.
Then the whole process was gone through to the smallest minutiae, and only an hour after the silvered face of the mirror was deluged with rain-water, and uncle and nephew gazed in triumph at their work, for there was no sign of greyish-drab powder about the mirror, and it was so bright that polishing seemed unnecessary.
The next day it was polished, till by a side light it looked black, while in face it was a brilliant looking-glass ready to reflect the faintest stars; and after being put away securely, the great tube was set about, and in due time this was lightly and strongly made of long laths hooped together. A shallow tray was contrived deep enough to hold the speculum, and fitted with screws, so that it could be secured to one end. Next followed the fitting of a properly-constructed eye-piece from a London optician, contrived so that it looked at right angles into a small reflector, which also had to be carefully fixed in the axis of the great speculum.
Chapter Thirty Two.“What’s the matter, Tom?” said Uncle Richard one day, as they were busy at work over the telescope, and Tom was scratching his head.“There’s nothing the matter, uncle, only I’m a bit puzzled.”“What about?”“Over this great glass. It’s going to be so different to the old one.”“Of course; that is a refractor, and this is going to be a reflector.”“Yes, uncle, but it seems so queer. The refractor is a tube made so that you can look through it, but the reflector will be, if you are right, so that you can’t look through it, because instead of being at the end, the hole will be in the side. Is that correct?”“Quite right, and you are quite wrong, Tom, for you do not understand the first simple truth in connection with a telescope.”“I suppose not, uncle,” replied the lad, with a sigh. “I am very stupid.”“No, you are not, sir, only about as ignorant as most people are about glasses. I have explained the matter to you, but you have not taken it in.”“I suppose not, uncle,” said Tom, wrinkling his brow.“Then understand it now, once for all. It is very simple if you will try and grasp it. Now look here: what do you do with an ordinary telescope or opera-glass, single or double? Hold it up to your eyes, do you not?”“Yes, uncle.”“And then?”“Look through it at something distant, and it seems to draw it near.”“You do what?”“Look through it, uncle.”“Nothing of the kind, sir, you do not.”Tom looked puzzled. What did his uncle mean? He had, he thought, looked through a pair of field-glasses scores of times at home in the old days.“I make you stare, my lad, but I am glad to see it, for it shows me how right I am, and that you do think as everybody else does who has not studied optics, that you look through a glass at an object.”Tom stared harder, and once more the old idea came to him, and he asked himself whether there were times when his uncle did not quite understand what he was saying.“But you do, uncle,” he cried at last. Then he qualified this declaration by saying, “Don’t you?”“No, my boy, once for all you do not; and if you take up any telescope, and remove the eye-piece before looking along the tube, you will see that your eyes will not penetrate the glass at the end. Then if you try the eye-piece alone, you will find that you cannot even look through that. How much less then will you be able to look through both at once.”“But it seems so strange, uncle. You have a big magnifying-glass in a tube, and don’t look through it? Then what do you do?”“Certainly not look through it, my boy.”“But the bigger the glasses are the more they magnify—the moon, say.”“Yes, Tom; and the more light they gather.”“Well, then, why do you say, uncle, that you don’t look through the glass?”“Because it is a fact that I want you to understand,” said Uncle Richard, smiling. “The big glass, or in our case the reflecting speculum, forms a tiny image of the object at which it is pointed, close to where we look in, within an inch or so of our eye.”“A tiny image, uncle?”“Well, picture, then.”“But you say tiny! It looks big enough when we put our eye to the little round hole.”“To be sure it does. But what do you look through?”“The eye-piece.”“Well, what is the eye-piece?”“A little glass or two—lenses.”“These glasses or lenses form a microscope, Tom; and through them you look at the tiny image formed in the focus of the great lens or the speculum, whichever you use.”“But I thought microscopes were only used to magnify things invisible to the eye.”“Well, Jupiter’s moons, Saturn’s ring, and the markings on Mars are all invisible to the naked eye. So are the craters in the moon; so we use the big speculum to gather the light, and then look at the spot where all the rays of light come to their narrowest point, with an eye-piece which really is a microscope.”“But I don’t understand now,” said Tom uneasily. “I wish I was not so—”“If you say stupid again, Tom, I shall quarrel with you,” said Uncle Richard sternly. “I never think any boy is stupid who tries to master a subject. One boy’s brain may be slower at acquiring knowledge than another, but that does not prove him to be stupid. What is it you don’t follow?”“About our telescope. If the light from the big speculum is all reflected nearly to a point, ought we not to look down at it?”“No; because then our heads would be in the way, and would cast a shadow upon it. To avoid that, I put the little mirror in the middle, near the top, just at the right slant, so that the rays are turned off at right angles into the eye-piece, and so we are able to look without interrupting the light.”“Oh, I see now,” said Tom thoughtfully. “It’s very clear.”“Yes,” said Uncle Richard. “Sir Isaac Newton, who contrived that way, was a clever man. Now then, let’s get on with our work.”“I suppose then now we’re ready?” said Tom.“Far from it,” replied his uncle; “are you going to hold up a twelve-foot tube to your eye, and direct it to a star? The next thing is of course to mount it upon trunnions, and arrange that it shall turn upon an axis, so that we can sweep in any direction.”The longest tasks come to an end. By the help of the village carpenter, a strong rough stand was connected with the beam formerly used to bear the sails of the mill, the trunnions were fitted to a strong iron ring by the smith, and one evening the great telescope was hung in its place, and in spite of its weight, moved at the slightest touch, its centre of gravity having been so carefully calculated that it swung up and down and revolved with the greatest ease.“There, Tom,” said Uncle Richard; “now I think we can sweep the heavens in every direction, and when once we have tried, the mirrors, so as to set them and the eye-piece exact, we can get to work.”Tom looked at his uncle in dismay.“Why, you don’t mean to say, uncle, that there is more to do after working at it like this?”“Yes, a great deal. We have to get the glasses to work with one another to the most perfect correctness. That task may take us for days.”It did, and though Tom finished off every evening worn-out and discouraged, he recommenced in the morning fresh and eager as ever, helping to alter the position of the big speculum, then of the small plane mirror. Then the eye-piece had to be unscrewed and replaced again and again, till at last Uncle Richard declared that he could do no more.“Then now we may begin?” cried Tom.“We might,” said his uncle, “for the moon will be just right to-night in the first quarter; but judging from appearances, we shall have a cloudy wet evening.”And so it proved, the moon not even showing where she was in hiding behind the clouds.“I do call it too bad,” cried Tom, “now, too, that we are quite ready.”“Patience, lad, patience. A star-gazer must have plenty of that. Do you know that a great astronomer once said that there were only about a hundred really good hours for observation in every year.”“What?” cried Tom. “He meant in a night. I mean a week. No, I don’t: how absurd! In a month.”“No, Tom,” said his uncle quietly, “in a year. Of course there would be plenty more fair hours, but for really good ones no doubt his calculation was pretty correct. So you will have to wait.”The Vicar called again one day, and hearing from Mrs Fidler that her master was over at the observatory, he came to the yard gate and thumped with his stick.“What’s that?” said Uncle Richard, who was down upon his knees carefully adjusting a lens.“Tramp, I should think,” said Tom, who was steadying the great tube of the telescope.“Then he must tramp,” said Uncle Richard. “I can’t be interrupted now. What numbers of these people do come here!”“Mrs Fidler says it’s because you give so much to them, uncle, and they tell one another.”“Mrs Fidler’s an old impostor,” said Uncle Richard—“there, I think that is exactly in the axis—she gives more away to them than I do.”“Bread-and-cheese, uncle; but she says you always give money.”“Well, boy, it isn’t Mrs Fidler’s money. That must be exact.”Bang, hang, hangat the gate, and then—“Anybody at home?” came faintly.“Why, it’s Mr Maxted, uncle. May I go and speak to him?”“Yes, you can let go now. Tell him to come up.”Tom left the telescope and went to the shutter, which he threw open, and stepped out into the little gallery.“Good-morning. Your uncle there?”“Yes, sir. He says you are to come up.”“Come up?” said the Vicar, laughing. “I don’t know. It was bad enough on the ground-floor. I don’t want to be shot out of the top. Is it safe?”“There’s nothing to mind now, sir,” cried Tom. “The door is open.”“Well, I think I’ll risk it this time,” said the Vicar, entering the yard, while Tom stepped back into the observatory.“What, is he pretending to be frightened?” said Uncle Richard, with a grim smile.“Yes, uncle; he wanted to know if it was safe.”By this time the Vicar’s steps were heard upon the lower stairs, and Tom lifted the trap-door, holding it open for their visitor, who, after the usual greetings, sat down to admire the telescope.“Hah! that begins to look business-like,” he said. “We shall be soon having a look I suppose. Finished?”“Very nearly,” said Uncle Richard. “It has been a long job.”“I wanted your advice about one of my difficulties,” said the Vicar, puckering up his face.“Shall I go down and see to the glass for the new frames, uncle?”“Oh, no, no, no,” cried the Vicar. “I’ve nothing to say that you need not hear. I’ve just come from old Mother Warboys’ cottage.”“And how is the old witch?”“Ah, poor, prejudiced old soul, much the same as ever. I’m afraid she is beyond alteration, but her grandson was there.”“Humph! And he’s beyond mending too,” said Uncle Richard gravely.“Ah, there’s the rub,” said the Vicar, crossing his legs, and clasping his hands about the upper knee. “They are both of human flesh, but one is young and green, the other old and dry. I can be satisfied that I am helpless over the old woman, but I’m very uneasy about that boy.”“Halloo! He was not seriously hurt over the explosion?”“Not a bit.”“But he thinks it was my doing to spite him, uncle, and he says he will serve me out.”“A young dog!” cried the Vicar. “I’ll talk to him again.”“Labour in vain,” said Uncle Richard. “As you know, I tried over and over again to make something of him, but he would not stay. He hates work. Wild as one of the rabbits he poaches.”“But we tame rabbits, Brandon, and I don’t like seeing that boy gradually go from bad to worse.”“It’s the gipsy blood in him, I’m afraid,” said Uncle Richard.“Yes, and I don’t know what to do with him.”“A good washing wouldn’t be amiss.”“No,” sighed the Vicar; “but he hates soap and water as much as he does work. What am I to do? The boy is on my conscience. He makes me feel as if all my teaching is vain, and I see him gradually developing into a man who, if he does what the boy has done, must certainly pass half his time in prison.”“Yes, it is a problem,” said Uncle Richard. “Boys are problems. Troublesome young cubs, aren’t they, Tom?”“Horrible, uncle,” said Tom dryly.“But to begin with: a boy is a boy,” said the Vicar firmly, “and he has naturally the seeds of good and evil in him.”“Pete Warboys had all the good left out of him,” said Uncle Richard.“No, I deny that,” said the Vicar decisively.“Well, I’ve seen him about for some time now, and I’ve never seen any of the good, Maxted.”“Ah, but I have,” said the Vicar, while Tom busied himself doing nothing to the telescope, and began to take a good deal of interest in the discussion about his enemy. “You will grant, I suppose, that Mother Warboys is about as unamiable, cantankerous an old woman as ever breathed?”“Most willingly,” said Uncle Richard, smiling. “She leads that boy quite a dog’s life. I’ve seen her thump him quite savagely with her stick.”“And he deserved it,” said Uncle Richard.“No doubt; but instead of showing resentment, the boy is devoted to her; and I know for a fact he is always bringing her rabbits and hares to cook for herself.”“Poached.”“Yes, I’m afraid so; but I’m firmly convinced that he would fight to the death for the poor old creature.”“Nature,” said Uncle Richard; “she is his grandmother.”“Then there is some good in him,” cried the Vicar; “and what I want is to make it grow. The only question is, how it is to be done.”“Don’t you think I have got problems enough over my telescope, without your setting me fresh ones? Get some recruiting serjeant to carry him off for raw material to turn into a soldier.”“Hopeless,” said the Vicar. “Too loose and shambling. As it is, metaphorically, every one throws stones at the lad; no one ever gives him a kind word.”“No, but who can? I’m afraid you must give him up, Maxted, as a hopeless case.”“I will not,” said the Vicar firmly. “It’s my duty to try and make a decent member of society of the lad if I can, and I’m sorry you cannot give me a hint.”“So am I,” said Uncle Richard seriously, “but I look upon him as hopeless. I tried again and again, till I felt that the only thing was to chain him up, and beat and starve him into submission, and it seemed to me that it would be better to let him run wild than attempt to do that.”“Yes; I agree with you,” said the Vicar. “Tom. Come, Tom, you’re a boy. Boys understand one another better than men understand them. Can’t you help me?”“I wish I could, sir,” said Tom, shaking his head, “but I’m afraid I can’t.”Then the conversation turned to astronomical matters, and soon after the Vicar left.
“What’s the matter, Tom?” said Uncle Richard one day, as they were busy at work over the telescope, and Tom was scratching his head.
“There’s nothing the matter, uncle, only I’m a bit puzzled.”
“What about?”
“Over this great glass. It’s going to be so different to the old one.”
“Of course; that is a refractor, and this is going to be a reflector.”
“Yes, uncle, but it seems so queer. The refractor is a tube made so that you can look through it, but the reflector will be, if you are right, so that you can’t look through it, because instead of being at the end, the hole will be in the side. Is that correct?”
“Quite right, and you are quite wrong, Tom, for you do not understand the first simple truth in connection with a telescope.”
“I suppose not, uncle,” replied the lad, with a sigh. “I am very stupid.”
“No, you are not, sir, only about as ignorant as most people are about glasses. I have explained the matter to you, but you have not taken it in.”
“I suppose not, uncle,” said Tom, wrinkling his brow.
“Then understand it now, once for all. It is very simple if you will try and grasp it. Now look here: what do you do with an ordinary telescope or opera-glass, single or double? Hold it up to your eyes, do you not?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“And then?”
“Look through it at something distant, and it seems to draw it near.”
“You do what?”
“Look through it, uncle.”
“Nothing of the kind, sir, you do not.”
Tom looked puzzled. What did his uncle mean? He had, he thought, looked through a pair of field-glasses scores of times at home in the old days.
“I make you stare, my lad, but I am glad to see it, for it shows me how right I am, and that you do think as everybody else does who has not studied optics, that you look through a glass at an object.”
Tom stared harder, and once more the old idea came to him, and he asked himself whether there were times when his uncle did not quite understand what he was saying.
“But you do, uncle,” he cried at last. Then he qualified this declaration by saying, “Don’t you?”
“No, my boy, once for all you do not; and if you take up any telescope, and remove the eye-piece before looking along the tube, you will see that your eyes will not penetrate the glass at the end. Then if you try the eye-piece alone, you will find that you cannot even look through that. How much less then will you be able to look through both at once.”
“But it seems so strange, uncle. You have a big magnifying-glass in a tube, and don’t look through it? Then what do you do?”
“Certainly not look through it, my boy.”
“But the bigger the glasses are the more they magnify—the moon, say.”
“Yes, Tom; and the more light they gather.”
“Well, then, why do you say, uncle, that you don’t look through the glass?”
“Because it is a fact that I want you to understand,” said Uncle Richard, smiling. “The big glass, or in our case the reflecting speculum, forms a tiny image of the object at which it is pointed, close to where we look in, within an inch or so of our eye.”
“A tiny image, uncle?”
“Well, picture, then.”
“But you say tiny! It looks big enough when we put our eye to the little round hole.”
“To be sure it does. But what do you look through?”
“The eye-piece.”
“Well, what is the eye-piece?”
“A little glass or two—lenses.”
“These glasses or lenses form a microscope, Tom; and through them you look at the tiny image formed in the focus of the great lens or the speculum, whichever you use.”
“But I thought microscopes were only used to magnify things invisible to the eye.”
“Well, Jupiter’s moons, Saturn’s ring, and the markings on Mars are all invisible to the naked eye. So are the craters in the moon; so we use the big speculum to gather the light, and then look at the spot where all the rays of light come to their narrowest point, with an eye-piece which really is a microscope.”
“But I don’t understand now,” said Tom uneasily. “I wish I was not so—”
“If you say stupid again, Tom, I shall quarrel with you,” said Uncle Richard sternly. “I never think any boy is stupid who tries to master a subject. One boy’s brain may be slower at acquiring knowledge than another, but that does not prove him to be stupid. What is it you don’t follow?”
“About our telescope. If the light from the big speculum is all reflected nearly to a point, ought we not to look down at it?”
“No; because then our heads would be in the way, and would cast a shadow upon it. To avoid that, I put the little mirror in the middle, near the top, just at the right slant, so that the rays are turned off at right angles into the eye-piece, and so we are able to look without interrupting the light.”
“Oh, I see now,” said Tom thoughtfully. “It’s very clear.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Richard. “Sir Isaac Newton, who contrived that way, was a clever man. Now then, let’s get on with our work.”
“I suppose then now we’re ready?” said Tom.
“Far from it,” replied his uncle; “are you going to hold up a twelve-foot tube to your eye, and direct it to a star? The next thing is of course to mount it upon trunnions, and arrange that it shall turn upon an axis, so that we can sweep in any direction.”
The longest tasks come to an end. By the help of the village carpenter, a strong rough stand was connected with the beam formerly used to bear the sails of the mill, the trunnions were fitted to a strong iron ring by the smith, and one evening the great telescope was hung in its place, and in spite of its weight, moved at the slightest touch, its centre of gravity having been so carefully calculated that it swung up and down and revolved with the greatest ease.
“There, Tom,” said Uncle Richard; “now I think we can sweep the heavens in every direction, and when once we have tried, the mirrors, so as to set them and the eye-piece exact, we can get to work.”
Tom looked at his uncle in dismay.
“Why, you don’t mean to say, uncle, that there is more to do after working at it like this?”
“Yes, a great deal. We have to get the glasses to work with one another to the most perfect correctness. That task may take us for days.”
It did, and though Tom finished off every evening worn-out and discouraged, he recommenced in the morning fresh and eager as ever, helping to alter the position of the big speculum, then of the small plane mirror. Then the eye-piece had to be unscrewed and replaced again and again, till at last Uncle Richard declared that he could do no more.
“Then now we may begin?” cried Tom.
“We might,” said his uncle, “for the moon will be just right to-night in the first quarter; but judging from appearances, we shall have a cloudy wet evening.”
And so it proved, the moon not even showing where she was in hiding behind the clouds.
“I do call it too bad,” cried Tom, “now, too, that we are quite ready.”
“Patience, lad, patience. A star-gazer must have plenty of that. Do you know that a great astronomer once said that there were only about a hundred really good hours for observation in every year.”
“What?” cried Tom. “He meant in a night. I mean a week. No, I don’t: how absurd! In a month.”
“No, Tom,” said his uncle quietly, “in a year. Of course there would be plenty more fair hours, but for really good ones no doubt his calculation was pretty correct. So you will have to wait.”
The Vicar called again one day, and hearing from Mrs Fidler that her master was over at the observatory, he came to the yard gate and thumped with his stick.
“What’s that?” said Uncle Richard, who was down upon his knees carefully adjusting a lens.
“Tramp, I should think,” said Tom, who was steadying the great tube of the telescope.
“Then he must tramp,” said Uncle Richard. “I can’t be interrupted now. What numbers of these people do come here!”
“Mrs Fidler says it’s because you give so much to them, uncle, and they tell one another.”
“Mrs Fidler’s an old impostor,” said Uncle Richard—“there, I think that is exactly in the axis—she gives more away to them than I do.”
“Bread-and-cheese, uncle; but she says you always give money.”
“Well, boy, it isn’t Mrs Fidler’s money. That must be exact.”
Bang, hang, hangat the gate, and then—
“Anybody at home?” came faintly.
“Why, it’s Mr Maxted, uncle. May I go and speak to him?”
“Yes, you can let go now. Tell him to come up.”
Tom left the telescope and went to the shutter, which he threw open, and stepped out into the little gallery.
“Good-morning. Your uncle there?”
“Yes, sir. He says you are to come up.”
“Come up?” said the Vicar, laughing. “I don’t know. It was bad enough on the ground-floor. I don’t want to be shot out of the top. Is it safe?”
“There’s nothing to mind now, sir,” cried Tom. “The door is open.”
“Well, I think I’ll risk it this time,” said the Vicar, entering the yard, while Tom stepped back into the observatory.
“What, is he pretending to be frightened?” said Uncle Richard, with a grim smile.
“Yes, uncle; he wanted to know if it was safe.”
By this time the Vicar’s steps were heard upon the lower stairs, and Tom lifted the trap-door, holding it open for their visitor, who, after the usual greetings, sat down to admire the telescope.
“Hah! that begins to look business-like,” he said. “We shall be soon having a look I suppose. Finished?”
“Very nearly,” said Uncle Richard. “It has been a long job.”
“I wanted your advice about one of my difficulties,” said the Vicar, puckering up his face.
“Shall I go down and see to the glass for the new frames, uncle?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” cried the Vicar. “I’ve nothing to say that you need not hear. I’ve just come from old Mother Warboys’ cottage.”
“And how is the old witch?”
“Ah, poor, prejudiced old soul, much the same as ever. I’m afraid she is beyond alteration, but her grandson was there.”
“Humph! And he’s beyond mending too,” said Uncle Richard gravely.
“Ah, there’s the rub,” said the Vicar, crossing his legs, and clasping his hands about the upper knee. “They are both of human flesh, but one is young and green, the other old and dry. I can be satisfied that I am helpless over the old woman, but I’m very uneasy about that boy.”
“Halloo! He was not seriously hurt over the explosion?”
“Not a bit.”
“But he thinks it was my doing to spite him, uncle, and he says he will serve me out.”
“A young dog!” cried the Vicar. “I’ll talk to him again.”
“Labour in vain,” said Uncle Richard. “As you know, I tried over and over again to make something of him, but he would not stay. He hates work. Wild as one of the rabbits he poaches.”
“But we tame rabbits, Brandon, and I don’t like seeing that boy gradually go from bad to worse.”
“It’s the gipsy blood in him, I’m afraid,” said Uncle Richard.
“Yes, and I don’t know what to do with him.”
“A good washing wouldn’t be amiss.”
“No,” sighed the Vicar; “but he hates soap and water as much as he does work. What am I to do? The boy is on my conscience. He makes me feel as if all my teaching is vain, and I see him gradually developing into a man who, if he does what the boy has done, must certainly pass half his time in prison.”
“Yes, it is a problem,” said Uncle Richard. “Boys are problems. Troublesome young cubs, aren’t they, Tom?”
“Horrible, uncle,” said Tom dryly.
“But to begin with: a boy is a boy,” said the Vicar firmly, “and he has naturally the seeds of good and evil in him.”
“Pete Warboys had all the good left out of him,” said Uncle Richard.
“No, I deny that,” said the Vicar decisively.
“Well, I’ve seen him about for some time now, and I’ve never seen any of the good, Maxted.”
“Ah, but I have,” said the Vicar, while Tom busied himself doing nothing to the telescope, and began to take a good deal of interest in the discussion about his enemy. “You will grant, I suppose, that Mother Warboys is about as unamiable, cantankerous an old woman as ever breathed?”
“Most willingly,” said Uncle Richard, smiling. “She leads that boy quite a dog’s life. I’ve seen her thump him quite savagely with her stick.”
“And he deserved it,” said Uncle Richard.
“No doubt; but instead of showing resentment, the boy is devoted to her; and I know for a fact he is always bringing her rabbits and hares to cook for herself.”
“Poached.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so; but I’m firmly convinced that he would fight to the death for the poor old creature.”
“Nature,” said Uncle Richard; “she is his grandmother.”
“Then there is some good in him,” cried the Vicar; “and what I want is to make it grow. The only question is, how it is to be done.”
“Don’t you think I have got problems enough over my telescope, without your setting me fresh ones? Get some recruiting serjeant to carry him off for raw material to turn into a soldier.”
“Hopeless,” said the Vicar. “Too loose and shambling. As it is, metaphorically, every one throws stones at the lad; no one ever gives him a kind word.”
“No, but who can? I’m afraid you must give him up, Maxted, as a hopeless case.”
“I will not,” said the Vicar firmly. “It’s my duty to try and make a decent member of society of the lad if I can, and I’m sorry you cannot give me a hint.”
“So am I,” said Uncle Richard seriously, “but I look upon him as hopeless. I tried again and again, till I felt that the only thing was to chain him up, and beat and starve him into submission, and it seemed to me that it would be better to let him run wild than attempt to do that.”
“Yes; I agree with you,” said the Vicar. “Tom. Come, Tom, you’re a boy. Boys understand one another better than men understand them. Can’t you help me?”
“I wish I could, sir,” said Tom, shaking his head, “but I’m afraid I can’t.”
Then the conversation turned to astronomical matters, and soon after the Vicar left.
Chapter Thirty Three.That conversation took root in Tom’s mind. He found himself thinking a good deal about Pete Warboys and his devotion to his hideous old grandmother; but it was hard work to believe that he had any of the good in him that the Vicar talked about.“Wonder whether he really has,” Tom said to himself. “He might have.”The idea began to grow, and it spread.“What would they say if I tried to alter him, and got him to turn into a decent chap?”He laughed at his own conceit directly after.“He’d laugh at me too,” thought Tom; and then something else took his attention. But the idea was there, and was always cropping up. He found himself talking to David about the lad one day when he was down the garden, and David left off digging potatoes, took a big kidney off one of the prongs of the potato fork, upon which it was impaled, split it in two, and began thoughtfully to polish the tool with the piece he retained.“Do I think as you might make a decent chap out of Pete Warboys, Master Tom, by being kind to him?”“Yes.”“Do I think as you could make a silk puss out of a sow’s ear, Master Tom; and then cut this here yellow bit o’ tater into sovereigns and put in it? No, sir, I don’t. Pete’s a bad ’un, and you can’t make a good ’un out of him.”“Not if he was properly taught?”“Tchah! you couldn’t teach a thing like him. It’d all run through him like water through a sieve.”“But he has never been taught better.”“More was I, sir, but I don’t go poaching, and stealing apples and eggs, and ducks and chickens. Why, he makes that wicked old woman his grandam fat with the things he steals and takes to her.”“Well, that shows there’s some good in him,” cried Tom, basing himself upon the Vicar’s speech.“Master Tom,” cried David, digging his fork down into the earth as if to impale fierce, evil thoughts with its tines, “I’m surperrised at you. Good! What, to go stealing an’ portching to feed up a wicked old woman, who spends all her time trying to curse. That’s a shocking sentiment, sir, and one that arn’t becoming. It arn’t good, and there arn’t no good in Pete Warboys, and never will be. He’s a bad stock, and if you was to take him and plant him in good soil, and then work him with a scion took off a good tree, and put on some graftin’ wax to keep out all the wet and cold, do you think he’d ever come to be a decent fruit tree? Because if you do, you’re wrong. He never could, and never would, come to anything better than a bad old cankering crab sort o’ thing. No, my lad, it would just be waste of time, and nothing else.”Still Tom did not feel at all convinced, but said no more.David did though. It was pleasant to the back standing there, with one foot resting upon the great five-pronged fork; and as he stood with his fingers on the handle, he kept his left arm across his loins, and gave Tom a cunning leer.“It’s all right, sir; taters won’t hurt. Tatering’s a thing you ought to take your time over. The longer they lie out here without the sun on them, the harder the skins will be, and the better they’ll keep.”Tom stopped talking to David for some time longer, but his mind was not bent upon the vegetable kingdom as represented by the tuber commonly known as a “tater,” but upon that portion of the animal kingdom familiar to him as Pete Warboys.Now it so happened that a couple of days later, Uncle Richard was going out on business in the nearest town, leaving Tom to amuse himself as he pleased.“What shall I do, uncle?” said Tom. “Is there anything to grind?”“No; you are not out enough in the open air. Go and get blackberries, or mushrooms, or something to take you for a long walk. I shall be home to tea.”Tom had been indoors so much, that at first he felt unwilling to go; but that feeling soon wore off, and he started for a long jaunt out through the firs, to the wild common-lands, where Nature revelled undisturbed, and he knew that between blackberries and mushrooms he was pretty sure of getting something to bring back in the basket Mrs Fidler supplied.And so it proved. As soon as he was well through the fir-wood, where the closely-growing reddish fir-trunks brought to mind Pete’s hiding-place, and consequently Pete himself, he found the broken ground rich with brambles clustering over the furze-bushes, and hanging down in the sandy hollows—hot, sunny spots, where the black fruit, rarely gathered, hung in bunches, so that the basket soon began to grow heavy, and a division had to be made with bracken fronds to keep them from being mixed up with the mushrooms he gathered from time to time—not big, flat, dark, brown-gilled fungi, such as grow in moist spots and rich old pastures, but delicate, plump little buttons, which he found here and there dotted about the soft velvety bits of sheep-cropped pasture hidden among the clumps of furze.Then there were other objects of interest: rabbits darted here and there, skurrying into their sandy holes; he caught sight of a weasel, which peered at him for a moment, and then glided away like a short fur-clothed viper. Further on he came upon an olive-green, regularly-marked snake, which seemed in no hurry to escape; another slightly-formed reptile, nearly equal in thickness all along, and looking as if made of oxidised silver, being far more active in its movements to gain sanctuary under a furze bush. Soon after, while reaching out his hand to get at a cluster of blackberries, he saw beneath him in an open sunny patch, where all was yellow sand, a curled-up grey serpent, not three feet from his extended hand. It was thick and short, the tail being joined on to the body without the graduation seen in the others, while the creature’s neck looked thin and small behind the flat, spade-shaped head.“Asleep or awake?” Tom asked himself, as the reptile lay perfectly motionless, with its curiously-marked eyes seeming dull, and as if formed of the same material as the scales.The lad drew his hand back, for there was something repellent about the little object, and he knew at once that this was a dangerous little viper.His first instinct was to strike at it, but he had no stick; and he stood perfectly still examining it, and comparing its shape and markings with what he could recall of his readings respecting the adder.There was no doubt about it. The little reptile was an adder, sunning itself in its warm home; and that it was not asleep Tom soon saw, for the curious tongue was rapidly protruded several times, flickering, as it were, outside the horny mouth, which seemed to be provided with an opening in front expressly for the tongue to pass through, while the jaws remained closed.“Wish I’d a stick,” thought the boy, as the viper now slowly raised its head; a couple of coils were in motion, and for the moment it seemed about to glide away, but the head sank again, and once more the little creature lay perfectly still.“They’re dangerous things, and the bite is very painful,” thought Tom; but he did not stir to get a stick to kill the reptile, for he was interested in its peculiar form, and the dark, velvety markings along its body, which glistened in the sun.And there he stood, peering over into the little opening, in profound unconsciousness that he was being silently stalked, till, just as he had made up his mind to go to the nearest fir-tree and cut a stick, in the hope of finding the adder still there on his return, there was a sharp snuffling sound.Tom started round, to find Pete’s ill-looking dog close at hand, but ready to spring away over the bushes as if expecting a blow.Tom’s next glance showed him the disturbed viper, with its head raised, eyes glittering as if filled with fire, and its body all in motion. Then it was gone; but another pair of eyes were gazing into his, for Pete Warboys slowly raised himself from where he had crawled to the other side of the furze clump.
That conversation took root in Tom’s mind. He found himself thinking a good deal about Pete Warboys and his devotion to his hideous old grandmother; but it was hard work to believe that he had any of the good in him that the Vicar talked about.
“Wonder whether he really has,” Tom said to himself. “He might have.”
The idea began to grow, and it spread.
“What would they say if I tried to alter him, and got him to turn into a decent chap?”
He laughed at his own conceit directly after.
“He’d laugh at me too,” thought Tom; and then something else took his attention. But the idea was there, and was always cropping up. He found himself talking to David about the lad one day when he was down the garden, and David left off digging potatoes, took a big kidney off one of the prongs of the potato fork, upon which it was impaled, split it in two, and began thoughtfully to polish the tool with the piece he retained.
“Do I think as you might make a decent chap out of Pete Warboys, Master Tom, by being kind to him?”
“Yes.”
“Do I think as you could make a silk puss out of a sow’s ear, Master Tom; and then cut this here yellow bit o’ tater into sovereigns and put in it? No, sir, I don’t. Pete’s a bad ’un, and you can’t make a good ’un out of him.”
“Not if he was properly taught?”
“Tchah! you couldn’t teach a thing like him. It’d all run through him like water through a sieve.”
“But he has never been taught better.”
“More was I, sir, but I don’t go poaching, and stealing apples and eggs, and ducks and chickens. Why, he makes that wicked old woman his grandam fat with the things he steals and takes to her.”
“Well, that shows there’s some good in him,” cried Tom, basing himself upon the Vicar’s speech.
“Master Tom,” cried David, digging his fork down into the earth as if to impale fierce, evil thoughts with its tines, “I’m surperrised at you. Good! What, to go stealing an’ portching to feed up a wicked old woman, who spends all her time trying to curse. That’s a shocking sentiment, sir, and one that arn’t becoming. It arn’t good, and there arn’t no good in Pete Warboys, and never will be. He’s a bad stock, and if you was to take him and plant him in good soil, and then work him with a scion took off a good tree, and put on some graftin’ wax to keep out all the wet and cold, do you think he’d ever come to be a decent fruit tree? Because if you do, you’re wrong. He never could, and never would, come to anything better than a bad old cankering crab sort o’ thing. No, my lad, it would just be waste of time, and nothing else.”
Still Tom did not feel at all convinced, but said no more.
David did though. It was pleasant to the back standing there, with one foot resting upon the great five-pronged fork; and as he stood with his fingers on the handle, he kept his left arm across his loins, and gave Tom a cunning leer.
“It’s all right, sir; taters won’t hurt. Tatering’s a thing you ought to take your time over. The longer they lie out here without the sun on them, the harder the skins will be, and the better they’ll keep.”
Tom stopped talking to David for some time longer, but his mind was not bent upon the vegetable kingdom as represented by the tuber commonly known as a “tater,” but upon that portion of the animal kingdom familiar to him as Pete Warboys.
Now it so happened that a couple of days later, Uncle Richard was going out on business in the nearest town, leaving Tom to amuse himself as he pleased.
“What shall I do, uncle?” said Tom. “Is there anything to grind?”
“No; you are not out enough in the open air. Go and get blackberries, or mushrooms, or something to take you for a long walk. I shall be home to tea.”
Tom had been indoors so much, that at first he felt unwilling to go; but that feeling soon wore off, and he started for a long jaunt out through the firs, to the wild common-lands, where Nature revelled undisturbed, and he knew that between blackberries and mushrooms he was pretty sure of getting something to bring back in the basket Mrs Fidler supplied.
And so it proved. As soon as he was well through the fir-wood, where the closely-growing reddish fir-trunks brought to mind Pete’s hiding-place, and consequently Pete himself, he found the broken ground rich with brambles clustering over the furze-bushes, and hanging down in the sandy hollows—hot, sunny spots, where the black fruit, rarely gathered, hung in bunches, so that the basket soon began to grow heavy, and a division had to be made with bracken fronds to keep them from being mixed up with the mushrooms he gathered from time to time—not big, flat, dark, brown-gilled fungi, such as grow in moist spots and rich old pastures, but delicate, plump little buttons, which he found here and there dotted about the soft velvety bits of sheep-cropped pasture hidden among the clumps of furze.
Then there were other objects of interest: rabbits darted here and there, skurrying into their sandy holes; he caught sight of a weasel, which peered at him for a moment, and then glided away like a short fur-clothed viper. Further on he came upon an olive-green, regularly-marked snake, which seemed in no hurry to escape; another slightly-formed reptile, nearly equal in thickness all along, and looking as if made of oxidised silver, being far more active in its movements to gain sanctuary under a furze bush. Soon after, while reaching out his hand to get at a cluster of blackberries, he saw beneath him in an open sunny patch, where all was yellow sand, a curled-up grey serpent, not three feet from his extended hand. It was thick and short, the tail being joined on to the body without the graduation seen in the others, while the creature’s neck looked thin and small behind the flat, spade-shaped head.
“Asleep or awake?” Tom asked himself, as the reptile lay perfectly motionless, with its curiously-marked eyes seeming dull, and as if formed of the same material as the scales.
The lad drew his hand back, for there was something repellent about the little object, and he knew at once that this was a dangerous little viper.
His first instinct was to strike at it, but he had no stick; and he stood perfectly still examining it, and comparing its shape and markings with what he could recall of his readings respecting the adder.
There was no doubt about it. The little reptile was an adder, sunning itself in its warm home; and that it was not asleep Tom soon saw, for the curious tongue was rapidly protruded several times, flickering, as it were, outside the horny mouth, which seemed to be provided with an opening in front expressly for the tongue to pass through, while the jaws remained closed.
“Wish I’d a stick,” thought the boy, as the viper now slowly raised its head; a couple of coils were in motion, and for the moment it seemed about to glide away, but the head sank again, and once more the little creature lay perfectly still.
“They’re dangerous things, and the bite is very painful,” thought Tom; but he did not stir to get a stick to kill the reptile, for he was interested in its peculiar form, and the dark, velvety markings along its body, which glistened in the sun.
And there he stood, peering over into the little opening, in profound unconsciousness that he was being silently stalked, till, just as he had made up his mind to go to the nearest fir-tree and cut a stick, in the hope of finding the adder still there on his return, there was a sharp snuffling sound.
Tom started round, to find Pete’s ill-looking dog close at hand, but ready to spring away over the bushes as if expecting a blow.
Tom’s next glance showed him the disturbed viper, with its head raised, eyes glittering as if filled with fire, and its body all in motion. Then it was gone; but another pair of eyes were gazing into his, for Pete Warboys slowly raised himself from where he had crawled to the other side of the furze clump.
Chapter Thirty Four.“Hulloo!” said Pete, with a sneering grin; “got you then, have I? Who gave you leave to come and pick them?”“Hulloo, Pete!” said Tom quietly, ignoring the question, for the recollection of his thoughts during the past few days came up strongly, and all that the Vicar, his uncle, and David had said.“Who are you a hulloo Peteing?” snarled the fellow. “Yer ain’t got no guns now to go shooting at people.”“What nonsense!” said Tom; “that wasn’t a gun—it was an explosion.”“Yer needn’t tell me; I know,” said Pete, edging round slowly to Tom’s side of the bush.“I don’t believe you were half so much hurt as I was,” continued Tom.“Serve yer right. Yer’d no business to shoot at a fellow.”“I didn’t,” cried Tom. “Don’t I tell you it wasn’t a gun?”“Oh, yer can’t cheat me. Here! hi! Kerm here, will yer, or I’ll scruntch yer!” he roared to his dog. “Leave that ’ere rarebut alone. Want him to go sneaking an’ telling the perlice, and purtendin’ it was me.”The dog gave up chasing an unfortunate rabbit through the bushes, and came trotting up, with hanging head and tail, to his master’s side, where he crouched down panting and flinching as Pete raised his hand and made believe to strike.“I’ll half smash yer if yer don’t mind,” he snarled.Then, turning to Tom—“What yer got there—blackb’rys and mash-eroons?”“Yes; there are plenty about,” replied Tom.“Know that better than you do.”“I dare say you do,” said Tom good-humouredly, as he watched the unpleasant looks directed at him, the fellow’s whole aspect being such as we read was assumed by the wolf who sought an excuse for eating the lamb.All the same, though, Tom’s aspect partook more of the good-humoured bulldog than that of the lamb; though Pete kept to his character well, and more and more showed that he was working himself up for a quarrel.“Yah!” he exclaimed suddenly, after edging himself up pretty closely, and with his hands still in his pockets, thrusting out his lower jaw, and leaning forward stared over his raised shoulder at Tom. “Yah! I feel as if I could half smash yer!”“Do you?” said Tom quietly.“Yes, I do. Don’t you get a-mocking me. Ain’t yer feared?”“No,” said Tom quietly, “not a bit. Have sixpence?”Pete stared, and leaned over out of the perpendicular, so as to get his face closer to Tom’s. “Whort say?”“Will you have sixpence?” said Tom, thrusting his right hand into his pocket, and withdrawing the above coin.“Yerse; ’course I will,” cried Pete, snatching the piece, spitting on it, and thrusting it into his pocket. “Thought your sort allus telled the truth.”“Well, so we do,” said Tom, smiling.“None o’ yer lies now, ’cause it won’t do with me,” said the fellow menacingly. “Yer said yer warn’t afeard, and yer are. All in a funk, that’s what yer are: so now then.”“No, I’m not,” said Tom, in the coolest way possible, for he had made up his mind to try and carry out the Vicar’s plan.“I tell yer yer are. What yer got here? Yer wouldn’t ha’ give me sixpence to let yer alone if yer hadn’t been afeard. What yer got here, I say?”“You can see,” said Tom, without showing the slightest resentment at the handle of his basket being seized, even though Pete, in perfect assurance that he was frightening his enemy into fits, grew more and more aggressive.“Yes, I can see,” cried Pete. “I’ve got eyes in my head, same as you chaps as come from London, and think yerselves so precious sharp. Yer’ve no right to come down and pick what’s meant for poor people. Give ’em here.”He wrenched the basket from Tom’s arm, and scattered its contents away amongst the furze-bushes, sending the basket after them.“There, that’s what you’ll get if yer comes picking and stealing here. How d’yer like that, young blunt ’un?”“Not at all,” said Tom, who looked very white, and felt a peculiar tingling about the corners of his lips and in his temples.“Course yer don’t; but yer’ve got to like it, and so I tell yer. Smell that.”He placed his fist within an inch of Tom’s nose, and the boy could not help smelling it, for it was strong of pulling onions, or peeling them with his nails.“Now, then, how much money have yer got with yer?”“Only another sixpence,” said Tom a little huskily.“Hand it over, then, and look sharp about it, ’fore it’s the worse for yer.”He caught hold of Tom’s jacket as he spoke, and gave it a shake, making his dog sidle up and growl, “Hear that? You give me more of yer sarce, and I’ll set the dorg at you, and see how yer like that. Now, then, where’s that sixpence?”“I’ll give it to you if you’ll leave go,” said Tom quietly. “Look here, Pete, I don’t want to quarrel with you.”“That yer don’t. I should like to see you. Give it here.”“I want to be friends with you, and try to do something for you.”“Yes, I knows you do. You’ve got to bring me a shillin’ every week, or else I’ll give it yer, so as you’d wish yer’d never been born. I’ll larn yer. Give me that sixpence.”“Leave go first.”“Give’s that sixpence, d’yer hear?” cried Pete, clapping his other hand on Tom, and shaking him.“Don’t do that,” cried Tom; “it makes me feel queer.”Pete yelled with laughter.“Course it does; but that arn’t nothing. Hand over that there sixpence, or—”He gave a savage shake, which made Tom turn deadly pale, and shake himself free.“What!” roared Pete. “Oh, yer would, would yer? Lay hold on him. Ciss! have him there!”The dog, which had been snuffling and growling about, needed no further urging, but sprang at Tom, who received his charge with a tremendous kick, which caught the cur under the jaw, knocking it over, and sending it in amongst the furze bushes, where it lay howling and yelping dismally, till it gave a peculiar sharp cry, sprang out with something sticking to its nose, and then dashed off with its tail between its legs as hard as it could go, leaving a little viper wriggling back over the short grass to get back to the shelter of the furze.Pete Warboys looked perfectly astounded at Tom’s act, and stood staring for a few moments. Then, attributing it to horror and desperate fear, he ran at his enemy again, and got a firm grip of his collar, to begin see-sawing him to and fro.“That’s it, is it?” he cried; “yer’d kick my dorg, would yer? Just you give me that other sixpence, or I’ll break every bone in yer skin ’fore yer know where you are.”“Let go!” said Tom huskily; and he struggled to get free.“Oh no, yer don’t. Yer arn’t going to get away till yer’ve paid me that there sixpence.”Tom’s fit of philanthropy had nearly all evaporated, like so much mist before the intense heat which Pete had set burning, and made all the blood in his face and extremities seem to run to his heart, which pumped away violently, causing his head to feel giddy, and his hands and feet to tingle and jerk.“Will you leave go?” he cried in a low, hoarse whisper.“No, I sharn’t, yer cowardly sneak,” cried Pete triumphantly, for the white face and trembling voice were delightful to him. He had his enemy metaphorically upon his knees, and it was pure delight to him to have Tom at his mercy. “Yer’ve bounced it over me long enough when yer’d got any one to help yer, or you was at home; but I’ve got yer now, and I’m going to pay yer, and teach yer, and let yer know what’s what. Where’s that there sixpence yer owe me?”“Will you let go?” cried Tom, more huskily than ever, but with his eyes blazing.“No,” cried Pete, grinning, and giving his imaginary victim a tremendous shake.The last wreath of Tom’s philanthropic mist had evaporated.Click—Clack!It was the only way in which he could use his fists from the manner in which he was being held; so Tom struck sharply upwards, his blows taking effect upon Pete’s lower jaw, and jerking his head sharply, making him loose his hold and stagger back, to go down in a sitting position amongst the furze.He did not stay there a moment, but rebounded as quickly as if he had been bumped down violently upon a spring bed.There the comparison ends, for Pete uttered a yell of agony and rage, which made him rush again at the lad, grinning like a dog, and meaning to take a savage revenge. But to his astonishment Tom did not attempt to run away. He flew to meet him, when there was a sharp encounter, heavy blows were delivered on either side, and Pete went down, but this time on the grass.He was up again directly, clinging still to the belief that his adversary was horribly afraid, and merely fighting in desperation; and once more he rushed at Tom, who was quite ready to rush at him.And then for fully ten minutes there was a succession of desperate encounters. They were not in the slightest degree scientific; they were not what people call rounds, and there was no squaring, for everything was of the most singular description: arms flew about like windmill sails; fists came in contact with fists, arms, heads, faces, chests, and at times—in a curly or semi-circular kind of blow—with backs and shoulders. Now they were up, now they were down; then up again to close, hitting, wrestling, and going down to continue the hitting on the ground. Sometimes Tom was undermost, sometimes Pete occupied that position.And so the fight went on desperately for the above-named ten minutes, at the end of which time they went down together with a heavy thud, after Pete had run in with his head down like a ram, receiving a couple of heavy cracks, but succeeding in gripping Tom about the waist, and trying to lift and throw him.But the long, big, loose-jointed fellow had miscalculated his strength. Far stronger than Tom at the commencement, his powers had soon begun to fail, while, though panting heavily, thickset, sturdy, bulldog like Tom had plenty of force left in him still, the result being that Pete’s effort to lift and throw him proved a failure, ending in a dexterous wrench throwing him off his balance, and another sending him down with his adversary upon his chest.The next minute Tom had extricated himself, Pete’s clutch giving way easily; a leg was dragged out from beneath him, and Tom sat panting on the grass, ready to spring up if Pete made a movement.But there was none of an inimical nature, for Pete was completely beaten, and lay upon his back wagging his head from side to side, and drawing up and straightening his legs slowly, as if he were a frog swimming upside down.Then he began to howl, with the tears streaming out of his eyes; but for the time being Tom was still too hot, and there was too much of the natural desire in him to injure his adversary for him to feel any compassion.“Do you give in?” he shouted.“Oh—oh—oh!” yelled Pete, in a hoarse, doleful mingling of cry and word. “Yer’ve killed me! yer’ve killed me!”“Dead people can’t talk,” cried Tom tauntingly. “Serve you right if I had.”Probably this was a bit of hectoring, and not the real feeling, consequent upon the great state of exaltation to which the fight had raised him.“Yer’ve killed me, yer great coward; yer’ve killed me!” wailed Pete again, excitement having probably acted upon his eyes after the fashion attributed to a horse’s, which are said to magnify largely, and made Tom seem unusually big.“Coward, am I?” cried Tom, rising. “You get up, and I’ll show you.”“Ow—ow—ow! Help! help!”“Get up,” said Tom, giving his adversary a thrust with his foot, and another and another, feeling a kind of fierce satisfaction in so doing, for every thrust brought forth a howl.“Will you get up?” cried Tom.“I carn’t; yer’ve broke my ribs and killed me—yer coward.”It could not have been after all any magnification of Pete’s eyes that caused him to say this, for Tom now saw, that where the malicious-looking orbs had been which looked at him so triumphantly a short time before, there were two tight-looking slits, from which the great tears were squeezing themselves out, as the humbled tyrant went on blubbering like a boy of eight or nine.Tom drew back from his adversary, for the war-fire which Pete had lit in him was nearly burned out, and his regular nature was coming back to smooth over the volcanic outburst which had transformed him for the time being.“Hope I don’t look like that,” was his first thought, as he gazed down at Pete’s face as if it were a newly-silvered mirror, and in it saw a reflection of his own. But as he looked it was dimly, and he felt that his eyes must be all swollen up, his lips cut against his teeth, his cheeks puffy, and his nose—“Ugh!” ejaculated Tom; “how disgusting!”He put up his hands to his face as the above thought came into his head, and then shuddered with dismay.There was no mistake about it, for he knew that if anything he was in a worse plight than the blubbering young ruffian before him. His hands, too: not only were they sadly smeared and stained, but the skin was off his knuckles, and now, as if all at once, he began to tingle, smart, and ache all over, while a horrible feeling of repentance came over him, and regret for what had happened.“What a brute I must look!” he thought; and then, “How terribly I have knocked him about!”Then with the feelings of regret and compunction, he began to wonder whether Pete was seriously hurt.“Can’t be,” he thought the next minute; “he makes too much noise,” and he recalled the howlings when the explosion took place at the mill.“He’s thoroughly beaten,” Tom said to himself, as he dabbed his bleeding face and knuckles, growing more sore and stiff minute by minute.“This is a rum way of trying to make friends, and to improve him,” he thought dismally, as he went on. “Oh dear, what a mess I’m in!”Just then so dismally prolonged a howl came from Pete, that, without looking round, Tom cried angrily in his pain—“Don’t make that row; I’m as bad as you. Come: get up.”He turned then to enforce his order with a little stirring up with his foot, but a sharp snarl made him start back in wonder, for there, after creeping quietly up among the furze, was Pete’s thin cur seated upon his master’s chest, and ready to defend him now against any one’s approach.“Well done, dog!” thought Tom. “I never liked you before. Here then, old fellow,” he cried aloud, as he thought of the way in which the master used the dog, brutally as a rule. “I’m not going to hurt him. Let’s get him to sit up.”But the dog barked fiercely as it rose on four legs, and showed its teeth, while Tom pressed a hand over one eye, tried to keep the other open, and burst out laughing at the sight before him.“Oh dear! I mustn’t laugh, it hurts so,” he cried; and then he laughed again. For there was Pete’s distorted comically swollen face in the bright sunshine, and in front of it the dog’s, puffed up in the most extraordinary one-sided manner, making the head look like some fancy sketch of a horrible monster drawn by an artist in fun.“It must be from the adder’s bite,” thought Tom, as a feeling of compassion was extended now to the dog, who, in spite of his menaces, looked giddy and half stupefied.“Here, are you going to lie howling there all day?” cried Tom.“Ow—ow—ow! I want a doctor,” groaned the lad; and he threw out his arms and legs again, nearly dislodging the dog from his chest.“No, you don’t,” cried Tom. “Here then, old fellow, let’s look at your nose,” he said softly, as he advanced closer, and the dog snarled again, but not so fiercely.“Get out! I don’t want to hurt you,” said Tom gently. “Let’s have a look at your nose then.”The dog looked up at him with one eye,—the other was completely shut,—and Tom put his hand closer. Then the poor animal uttered a faint howl, not unlike his master’s; and as Tom touched the swollen side of its head, it leaned it heavily in his hand, and whined softly, looking up piteously the while.“Poor old chap then!” said Tom, forgetting his own sufferings as the dog stepped slowly off its master’s chest, staggered, and then leaned up against the friendly legs so near, drooping head and tail the while.“Here, Pete,” cried Tom excitedly, “your dog’s dying.”“Eh?” cried Pete, sitting up suddenly, and looking very like the poor brute as he managed to open one eye.“That adder bit him. Look at his swollen head.”“So it has,” said Pete. “Come here, young un!”But the dog did not stir.“Where’s there some water?” said Tom.“Down by the ford,” replied Pete, quietly enough now.“People would see us there. Is there none nearer?”“There’s some in the frog pond,” replied Pete.“Stop a minute; I know,” said Tom. “Ah, poor old chap, then!” he cried excitedly, for the dog suddenly gave a lurch and fell upon its side.“I say,” cried Pete wildly, as he rose to his knees, and caught hold of one of the forelegs; “he arn’t going to croak, is he?”“I don’t know; I’m afraid so. But look here, the adder’s bite was poison; wouldn’t it do good to let some of the poison out?”“Does good if you’ve got a thorn in your foot,” said Pete, who seemed to have forgotten all about his broken ribs, and the fact that he was dying.“Shall I open the place with my sharp penknife?”“Couldn’t do no harm.”Tom hesitated a moment, and took hold of the dog’s muzzle, when the poor brute whined softly, looked at him with its half-closed eyes, and made a feeble effort to lick his hand.Tom hesitated no longer. He opened the keen blade of his penknife, raised the dog’s head upon his knee, and examined a whitish spot terribly swollen round, upon the dog’s black nose.“Mind he don’t bite yer,” said Pete, in a tone full of caution.Tom looked at him sharply. “He has got some good in him after all,” he thought.“That’s where the adder bit him,” continued Pete. “I was bit once in the leg, and my! it was bad for days. Mind—he’ll bite.”“No, he won’t,” said Tom firmly. “Poor old fellow, then. It’s to do it good.”As he spoke he thrust the knife point right into the centre of the white patch, fully half an inch; and the dog, utterly stupefied by the poison, or else from some misty knowledge that it was being helped, hardly winced, but lay with one eye open, looking up at Tom, who laid the head down upon the grass. For a few moments there was nothing to see but the little gaping cut. Then a tiny drop of black blood appeared, then very slowly another, and soon after a little thread of discoloured blood trickled gently away.“He’s a-goin’ to croak,” said Pete hoarsely, and he looked in an agonised way at Tom.“I hope not. That may do him good.”“But oughtn’t you to tie it up with a handkychy?”“No; that must be better out of him. I say, look here—can’t you carry him to that hole of yours under the fir-trees?”Pete looked at him sharply.“Well, I know where it is,” said Tom. “If you lay him down there, out of the sun, perhaps he’ll get better.”Pete nodded, and passing his hands under the dog, lifted it in his arms, to begin tramping through the furze-bushes toward the distant pines, from which he had seen and stalked Tom not so long before.“Shall I come with you?” said Tom.“If yer like,” was the reply, and Tom followed; and when after a time Pete stopped to rest, he relieved him, and carried the dog for some distance, holding it too when the pit was reached, and Pete lowered himself down to take it, and creep in with it to place it on his fir-needle bed.Tom followed, and the two lads knelt there in the semi-darkness looking at the patient, which lay for some minutes just as it had been placed.“He is a-going to croak,” said Pete suddenly, for the door gave a feeble whine, and then stretched itself out.“No, he isn’t—he’s going to sleep,” said Tom, for the dog yawned, and then curled itself up tightly, apparently falling into a stupor at once, for it did not stir.“Perhaps he’ll come round,” said Tom, backing out of the hole. “Now, show me where the nearest water is.”“It ain’t fur now,” said Pete, following him. “It’s where I gets water to drink;” and starting off for the edge of the fir-wood, Tom followed, feeling puzzled at the change that had come over the scene.
“Hulloo!” said Pete, with a sneering grin; “got you then, have I? Who gave you leave to come and pick them?”
“Hulloo, Pete!” said Tom quietly, ignoring the question, for the recollection of his thoughts during the past few days came up strongly, and all that the Vicar, his uncle, and David had said.
“Who are you a hulloo Peteing?” snarled the fellow. “Yer ain’t got no guns now to go shooting at people.”
“What nonsense!” said Tom; “that wasn’t a gun—it was an explosion.”
“Yer needn’t tell me; I know,” said Pete, edging round slowly to Tom’s side of the bush.
“I don’t believe you were half so much hurt as I was,” continued Tom.
“Serve yer right. Yer’d no business to shoot at a fellow.”
“I didn’t,” cried Tom. “Don’t I tell you it wasn’t a gun?”
“Oh, yer can’t cheat me. Here! hi! Kerm here, will yer, or I’ll scruntch yer!” he roared to his dog. “Leave that ’ere rarebut alone. Want him to go sneaking an’ telling the perlice, and purtendin’ it was me.”
The dog gave up chasing an unfortunate rabbit through the bushes, and came trotting up, with hanging head and tail, to his master’s side, where he crouched down panting and flinching as Pete raised his hand and made believe to strike.
“I’ll half smash yer if yer don’t mind,” he snarled.
Then, turning to Tom—
“What yer got there—blackb’rys and mash-eroons?”
“Yes; there are plenty about,” replied Tom.
“Know that better than you do.”
“I dare say you do,” said Tom good-humouredly, as he watched the unpleasant looks directed at him, the fellow’s whole aspect being such as we read was assumed by the wolf who sought an excuse for eating the lamb.
All the same, though, Tom’s aspect partook more of the good-humoured bulldog than that of the lamb; though Pete kept to his character well, and more and more showed that he was working himself up for a quarrel.
“Yah!” he exclaimed suddenly, after edging himself up pretty closely, and with his hands still in his pockets, thrusting out his lower jaw, and leaning forward stared over his raised shoulder at Tom. “Yah! I feel as if I could half smash yer!”
“Do you?” said Tom quietly.
“Yes, I do. Don’t you get a-mocking me. Ain’t yer feared?”
“No,” said Tom quietly, “not a bit. Have sixpence?”
Pete stared, and leaned over out of the perpendicular, so as to get his face closer to Tom’s. “Whort say?”
“Will you have sixpence?” said Tom, thrusting his right hand into his pocket, and withdrawing the above coin.
“Yerse; ’course I will,” cried Pete, snatching the piece, spitting on it, and thrusting it into his pocket. “Thought your sort allus telled the truth.”
“Well, so we do,” said Tom, smiling.
“None o’ yer lies now, ’cause it won’t do with me,” said the fellow menacingly. “Yer said yer warn’t afeard, and yer are. All in a funk, that’s what yer are: so now then.”
“No, I’m not,” said Tom, in the coolest way possible, for he had made up his mind to try and carry out the Vicar’s plan.
“I tell yer yer are. What yer got here? Yer wouldn’t ha’ give me sixpence to let yer alone if yer hadn’t been afeard. What yer got here, I say?”
“You can see,” said Tom, without showing the slightest resentment at the handle of his basket being seized, even though Pete, in perfect assurance that he was frightening his enemy into fits, grew more and more aggressive.
“Yes, I can see,” cried Pete. “I’ve got eyes in my head, same as you chaps as come from London, and think yerselves so precious sharp. Yer’ve no right to come down and pick what’s meant for poor people. Give ’em here.”
He wrenched the basket from Tom’s arm, and scattered its contents away amongst the furze-bushes, sending the basket after them.
“There, that’s what you’ll get if yer comes picking and stealing here. How d’yer like that, young blunt ’un?”
“Not at all,” said Tom, who looked very white, and felt a peculiar tingling about the corners of his lips and in his temples.
“Course yer don’t; but yer’ve got to like it, and so I tell yer. Smell that.”
He placed his fist within an inch of Tom’s nose, and the boy could not help smelling it, for it was strong of pulling onions, or peeling them with his nails.
“Now, then, how much money have yer got with yer?”
“Only another sixpence,” said Tom a little huskily.
“Hand it over, then, and look sharp about it, ’fore it’s the worse for yer.”
He caught hold of Tom’s jacket as he spoke, and gave it a shake, making his dog sidle up and growl, “Hear that? You give me more of yer sarce, and I’ll set the dorg at you, and see how yer like that. Now, then, where’s that sixpence?”
“I’ll give it to you if you’ll leave go,” said Tom quietly. “Look here, Pete, I don’t want to quarrel with you.”
“That yer don’t. I should like to see you. Give it here.”
“I want to be friends with you, and try to do something for you.”
“Yes, I knows you do. You’ve got to bring me a shillin’ every week, or else I’ll give it yer, so as you’d wish yer’d never been born. I’ll larn yer. Give me that sixpence.”
“Leave go first.”
“Give’s that sixpence, d’yer hear?” cried Pete, clapping his other hand on Tom, and shaking him.
“Don’t do that,” cried Tom; “it makes me feel queer.”
Pete yelled with laughter.
“Course it does; but that arn’t nothing. Hand over that there sixpence, or—”
He gave a savage shake, which made Tom turn deadly pale, and shake himself free.
“What!” roared Pete. “Oh, yer would, would yer? Lay hold on him. Ciss! have him there!”
The dog, which had been snuffling and growling about, needed no further urging, but sprang at Tom, who received his charge with a tremendous kick, which caught the cur under the jaw, knocking it over, and sending it in amongst the furze bushes, where it lay howling and yelping dismally, till it gave a peculiar sharp cry, sprang out with something sticking to its nose, and then dashed off with its tail between its legs as hard as it could go, leaving a little viper wriggling back over the short grass to get back to the shelter of the furze.
Pete Warboys looked perfectly astounded at Tom’s act, and stood staring for a few moments. Then, attributing it to horror and desperate fear, he ran at his enemy again, and got a firm grip of his collar, to begin see-sawing him to and fro.
“That’s it, is it?” he cried; “yer’d kick my dorg, would yer? Just you give me that other sixpence, or I’ll break every bone in yer skin ’fore yer know where you are.”
“Let go!” said Tom huskily; and he struggled to get free.
“Oh no, yer don’t. Yer arn’t going to get away till yer’ve paid me that there sixpence.”
Tom’s fit of philanthropy had nearly all evaporated, like so much mist before the intense heat which Pete had set burning, and made all the blood in his face and extremities seem to run to his heart, which pumped away violently, causing his head to feel giddy, and his hands and feet to tingle and jerk.
“Will you leave go?” he cried in a low, hoarse whisper.
“No, I sharn’t, yer cowardly sneak,” cried Pete triumphantly, for the white face and trembling voice were delightful to him. He had his enemy metaphorically upon his knees, and it was pure delight to him to have Tom at his mercy. “Yer’ve bounced it over me long enough when yer’d got any one to help yer, or you was at home; but I’ve got yer now, and I’m going to pay yer, and teach yer, and let yer know what’s what. Where’s that there sixpence yer owe me?”
“Will you let go?” cried Tom, more huskily than ever, but with his eyes blazing.
“No,” cried Pete, grinning, and giving his imaginary victim a tremendous shake.
The last wreath of Tom’s philanthropic mist had evaporated.
Click—Clack!
It was the only way in which he could use his fists from the manner in which he was being held; so Tom struck sharply upwards, his blows taking effect upon Pete’s lower jaw, and jerking his head sharply, making him loose his hold and stagger back, to go down in a sitting position amongst the furze.
He did not stay there a moment, but rebounded as quickly as if he had been bumped down violently upon a spring bed.
There the comparison ends, for Pete uttered a yell of agony and rage, which made him rush again at the lad, grinning like a dog, and meaning to take a savage revenge. But to his astonishment Tom did not attempt to run away. He flew to meet him, when there was a sharp encounter, heavy blows were delivered on either side, and Pete went down, but this time on the grass.
He was up again directly, clinging still to the belief that his adversary was horribly afraid, and merely fighting in desperation; and once more he rushed at Tom, who was quite ready to rush at him.
And then for fully ten minutes there was a succession of desperate encounters. They were not in the slightest degree scientific; they were not what people call rounds, and there was no squaring, for everything was of the most singular description: arms flew about like windmill sails; fists came in contact with fists, arms, heads, faces, chests, and at times—in a curly or semi-circular kind of blow—with backs and shoulders. Now they were up, now they were down; then up again to close, hitting, wrestling, and going down to continue the hitting on the ground. Sometimes Tom was undermost, sometimes Pete occupied that position.
And so the fight went on desperately for the above-named ten minutes, at the end of which time they went down together with a heavy thud, after Pete had run in with his head down like a ram, receiving a couple of heavy cracks, but succeeding in gripping Tom about the waist, and trying to lift and throw him.
But the long, big, loose-jointed fellow had miscalculated his strength. Far stronger than Tom at the commencement, his powers had soon begun to fail, while, though panting heavily, thickset, sturdy, bulldog like Tom had plenty of force left in him still, the result being that Pete’s effort to lift and throw him proved a failure, ending in a dexterous wrench throwing him off his balance, and another sending him down with his adversary upon his chest.
The next minute Tom had extricated himself, Pete’s clutch giving way easily; a leg was dragged out from beneath him, and Tom sat panting on the grass, ready to spring up if Pete made a movement.
But there was none of an inimical nature, for Pete was completely beaten, and lay upon his back wagging his head from side to side, and drawing up and straightening his legs slowly, as if he were a frog swimming upside down.
Then he began to howl, with the tears streaming out of his eyes; but for the time being Tom was still too hot, and there was too much of the natural desire in him to injure his adversary for him to feel any compassion.
“Do you give in?” he shouted.
“Oh—oh—oh!” yelled Pete, in a hoarse, doleful mingling of cry and word. “Yer’ve killed me! yer’ve killed me!”
“Dead people can’t talk,” cried Tom tauntingly. “Serve you right if I had.”
Probably this was a bit of hectoring, and not the real feeling, consequent upon the great state of exaltation to which the fight had raised him.
“Yer’ve killed me, yer great coward; yer’ve killed me!” wailed Pete again, excitement having probably acted upon his eyes after the fashion attributed to a horse’s, which are said to magnify largely, and made Tom seem unusually big.
“Coward, am I?” cried Tom, rising. “You get up, and I’ll show you.”
“Ow—ow—ow! Help! help!”
“Get up,” said Tom, giving his adversary a thrust with his foot, and another and another, feeling a kind of fierce satisfaction in so doing, for every thrust brought forth a howl.
“Will you get up?” cried Tom.
“I carn’t; yer’ve broke my ribs and killed me—yer coward.”
It could not have been after all any magnification of Pete’s eyes that caused him to say this, for Tom now saw, that where the malicious-looking orbs had been which looked at him so triumphantly a short time before, there were two tight-looking slits, from which the great tears were squeezing themselves out, as the humbled tyrant went on blubbering like a boy of eight or nine.
Tom drew back from his adversary, for the war-fire which Pete had lit in him was nearly burned out, and his regular nature was coming back to smooth over the volcanic outburst which had transformed him for the time being.
“Hope I don’t look like that,” was his first thought, as he gazed down at Pete’s face as if it were a newly-silvered mirror, and in it saw a reflection of his own. But as he looked it was dimly, and he felt that his eyes must be all swollen up, his lips cut against his teeth, his cheeks puffy, and his nose—
“Ugh!” ejaculated Tom; “how disgusting!”
He put up his hands to his face as the above thought came into his head, and then shuddered with dismay.
There was no mistake about it, for he knew that if anything he was in a worse plight than the blubbering young ruffian before him. His hands, too: not only were they sadly smeared and stained, but the skin was off his knuckles, and now, as if all at once, he began to tingle, smart, and ache all over, while a horrible feeling of repentance came over him, and regret for what had happened.
“What a brute I must look!” he thought; and then, “How terribly I have knocked him about!”
Then with the feelings of regret and compunction, he began to wonder whether Pete was seriously hurt.
“Can’t be,” he thought the next minute; “he makes too much noise,” and he recalled the howlings when the explosion took place at the mill.
“He’s thoroughly beaten,” Tom said to himself, as he dabbed his bleeding face and knuckles, growing more sore and stiff minute by minute.
“This is a rum way of trying to make friends, and to improve him,” he thought dismally, as he went on. “Oh dear, what a mess I’m in!”
Just then so dismally prolonged a howl came from Pete, that, without looking round, Tom cried angrily in his pain—
“Don’t make that row; I’m as bad as you. Come: get up.”
He turned then to enforce his order with a little stirring up with his foot, but a sharp snarl made him start back in wonder, for there, after creeping quietly up among the furze, was Pete’s thin cur seated upon his master’s chest, and ready to defend him now against any one’s approach.
“Well done, dog!” thought Tom. “I never liked you before. Here then, old fellow,” he cried aloud, as he thought of the way in which the master used the dog, brutally as a rule. “I’m not going to hurt him. Let’s get him to sit up.”
But the dog barked fiercely as it rose on four legs, and showed its teeth, while Tom pressed a hand over one eye, tried to keep the other open, and burst out laughing at the sight before him.
“Oh dear! I mustn’t laugh, it hurts so,” he cried; and then he laughed again. For there was Pete’s distorted comically swollen face in the bright sunshine, and in front of it the dog’s, puffed up in the most extraordinary one-sided manner, making the head look like some fancy sketch of a horrible monster drawn by an artist in fun.
“It must be from the adder’s bite,” thought Tom, as a feeling of compassion was extended now to the dog, who, in spite of his menaces, looked giddy and half stupefied.
“Here, are you going to lie howling there all day?” cried Tom.
“Ow—ow—ow! I want a doctor,” groaned the lad; and he threw out his arms and legs again, nearly dislodging the dog from his chest.
“No, you don’t,” cried Tom. “Here then, old fellow, let’s look at your nose,” he said softly, as he advanced closer, and the dog snarled again, but not so fiercely.
“Get out! I don’t want to hurt you,” said Tom gently. “Let’s have a look at your nose then.”
The dog looked up at him with one eye,—the other was completely shut,—and Tom put his hand closer. Then the poor animal uttered a faint howl, not unlike his master’s; and as Tom touched the swollen side of its head, it leaned it heavily in his hand, and whined softly, looking up piteously the while.
“Poor old chap then!” said Tom, forgetting his own sufferings as the dog stepped slowly off its master’s chest, staggered, and then leaned up against the friendly legs so near, drooping head and tail the while.
“Here, Pete,” cried Tom excitedly, “your dog’s dying.”
“Eh?” cried Pete, sitting up suddenly, and looking very like the poor brute as he managed to open one eye.
“That adder bit him. Look at his swollen head.”
“So it has,” said Pete. “Come here, young un!”
But the dog did not stir.
“Where’s there some water?” said Tom.
“Down by the ford,” replied Pete, quietly enough now.
“People would see us there. Is there none nearer?”
“There’s some in the frog pond,” replied Pete.
“Stop a minute; I know,” said Tom. “Ah, poor old chap, then!” he cried excitedly, for the dog suddenly gave a lurch and fell upon its side.
“I say,” cried Pete wildly, as he rose to his knees, and caught hold of one of the forelegs; “he arn’t going to croak, is he?”
“I don’t know; I’m afraid so. But look here, the adder’s bite was poison; wouldn’t it do good to let some of the poison out?”
“Does good if you’ve got a thorn in your foot,” said Pete, who seemed to have forgotten all about his broken ribs, and the fact that he was dying.
“Shall I open the place with my sharp penknife?”
“Couldn’t do no harm.”
Tom hesitated a moment, and took hold of the dog’s muzzle, when the poor brute whined softly, looked at him with its half-closed eyes, and made a feeble effort to lick his hand.
Tom hesitated no longer. He opened the keen blade of his penknife, raised the dog’s head upon his knee, and examined a whitish spot terribly swollen round, upon the dog’s black nose.
“Mind he don’t bite yer,” said Pete, in a tone full of caution.
Tom looked at him sharply. “He has got some good in him after all,” he thought.
“That’s where the adder bit him,” continued Pete. “I was bit once in the leg, and my! it was bad for days. Mind—he’ll bite.”
“No, he won’t,” said Tom firmly. “Poor old fellow, then. It’s to do it good.”
As he spoke he thrust the knife point right into the centre of the white patch, fully half an inch; and the dog, utterly stupefied by the poison, or else from some misty knowledge that it was being helped, hardly winced, but lay with one eye open, looking up at Tom, who laid the head down upon the grass. For a few moments there was nothing to see but the little gaping cut. Then a tiny drop of black blood appeared, then very slowly another, and soon after a little thread of discoloured blood trickled gently away.
“He’s a-goin’ to croak,” said Pete hoarsely, and he looked in an agonised way at Tom.
“I hope not. That may do him good.”
“But oughtn’t you to tie it up with a handkychy?”
“No; that must be better out of him. I say, look here—can’t you carry him to that hole of yours under the fir-trees?”
Pete looked at him sharply.
“Well, I know where it is,” said Tom. “If you lay him down there, out of the sun, perhaps he’ll get better.”
Pete nodded, and passing his hands under the dog, lifted it in his arms, to begin tramping through the furze-bushes toward the distant pines, from which he had seen and stalked Tom not so long before.
“Shall I come with you?” said Tom.
“If yer like,” was the reply, and Tom followed; and when after a time Pete stopped to rest, he relieved him, and carried the dog for some distance, holding it too when the pit was reached, and Pete lowered himself down to take it, and creep in with it to place it on his fir-needle bed.
Tom followed, and the two lads knelt there in the semi-darkness looking at the patient, which lay for some minutes just as it had been placed.
“He is a-going to croak,” said Pete suddenly, for the door gave a feeble whine, and then stretched itself out.
“No, he isn’t—he’s going to sleep,” said Tom, for the dog yawned, and then curled itself up tightly, apparently falling into a stupor at once, for it did not stir.
“Perhaps he’ll come round,” said Tom, backing out of the hole. “Now, show me where the nearest water is.”
“It ain’t fur now,” said Pete, following him. “It’s where I gets water to drink;” and starting off for the edge of the fir-wood, Tom followed, feeling puzzled at the change that had come over the scene.