Chapter Twelve.“Now then, we’ll begin,” said Uncle Richard; “and the first thing is to make our mould or gauge, for everything we do must be so exact that we can set distortion at defiance. We must have no aberration, as opticians call it.”“Begin to polish the glass, uncle?”“Not yet. Fetch those two pieces of lath.” Tom fetched a couple of thin pieces of wood, each a little over twelve feet long. These were laid upon the bench and screwed together, so as to make one rod just over twenty-four feet long.Then at one end a hole was made, into which a large brass-headed nail was thrust, while through the other end a sharp-pointed bradawl was bored, so as to leave its sharp point sticking out a quarter of an inch on the other side.“So far so good,” said Uncle Richard. “Do you know what we are going to do, Tom?” Tom shook his head.“Strike the curve on that piece of zinc that we are to make our speculum.”“Curve?” said Tom; “why, it’s quite round now.”“Yes; the edge is, but we are going to work at the face.”“But arn’t you going to polish it into a looking-glass?”“Yes; but not a flat one—a plane. That would be of no use to us, Tom; we must have a parabolic curve.”“Oh,” said Tom, who only knew parabolas from a cursory acquaintance with them through an old Greek friend called Euclid.“Be patient, and you’ll soon understand,” continued Uncle Richard, who proceeded to secure the sheet of zinc to a piece of board by means of four tacks at its corners, and ended by carrying it out, and fixing the board just at the bottom of the border, close to the window.A couple of strong nails at the sides of the board were sufficient, and then he led the way in.“Now, Tom, take that ball of twine and the hammer, and go up to the top window, open it, and look out.”The boy did not stop to say “What for?” but ran up-stairs, opened the window, and looked out, to find his uncle beneath with the long rod.“Lower down the end of the string,” he cried; and this was done, Tom watching, and seeing it tied to the end of the rod where the brass nail stuck through.“Haul up, Tom.”The twine was tightened, and the end of the rod drawn up till Tom could take it in his hand.“Now take away the string.”This was done.“Get your hammer.”“It’s here on the window-sill, uncle.”“That’s right. Now look here: I want you to lean out, and drive that nail in between two of the bricks, so that this marking-point at my end may hang just a few inches above the bottom of my piece of zinc. I’ll guide it. That’s just right. Now drive in the nail.”“Must come an inch higher, so that the nail may be opposite a joint.”“Take it an inch higher, and drive it in.”This was done, and the rod swung like an immensely long wooden pendulum.“That’s right,” cried Uncle Richard; “the nail and this point are exactly twenty-four feet apart. Now keep your finger on the head of the nail to steady it while I mark the zinc.”Tom obeyed, and looked down the while, to see his uncle move the rod to and fro, till he had scored in the sheet of zinc a curve as neatly and more truly than if it had been done with a pair of compasses.“That’s all, Tom,” he said. “Take out the nail and lower the rod down again carefully, or it will break.”All this was done, and Tom descended to find that both the rod and the sheet of zinc had been carried in, the latter laid on the bench, and displaying a curve deeply scratched upon it where the sharp-pointed bradawl had been drawn.“There, Tom,” said Uncle Richard, “that curve is exactly the one we have to make in our speculum, so that we may have a telescope of twelve feet focus. Do you understand?”“No,” said Tom bluntly.“Never mind—you soon will. It means that when we have ground out the glass so that it is a hollow of that shape, all the light reflected will meet at a point just twelve feet distant from its surface. Now we have begun in real earnest.”He now took a keen-edged chisel, and pressing the corner down proceeded to deepen the mark scored in the zinc with the greatest care, until he had cut right through, forming the metal into two moulds, one of which was to gauge the lower disc, the other the upper. The edges of these were then rubbed carefully together as they lay flat upon the bench, till their edges were quite smooth; then some of the unnecessary zinc was cut away, a couple of big holes punched in them, and they were hung upon a couple of nails over the bench ready for use.“Next thing,” cried Uncle Richard, “is to begin upon the speculum itself, so now for our apparatus. Here we have it all: a bowl of fine sifted silver sand, a bucket of water, and a sponge. Very simple things for bringing the moon so near, eh?”“But is that all we want, uncle?”“At present, my boy,” said Uncle Richard, proceeding to wet some of the sand and pretty well cover the disc of glass fixed upon the cask-head. “That’s for grinding, as you see.”“Yes, uncle; but what are you going to rub it with?”“The other disc. Here, catch hold. Be careful.”Tom obeyed, and the smooth piece of plate-glass was laid flat upon the first piece, crushing down the wet sand, and fitting well into its place.“Now, my boy, if we rub those two together, what will be the effect?”“Grind the glass,” said Tom. “I once made a transparent slate like that, by rubbing a piece of glass on a stone with some sand and water. But I thought you wanted to hollow out the glass?”“So I do, Tom.”“But that will only keep the pieces flat.”“I beg your pardon, my boy. If we rub and grind them as I propose, one of the discs will be rounded and the other hollowed exactly as I wish.”Tom stared, for this was to his way of thinking impossible.“Are you sure you are right, uncle? Because if you are not, it would be so much trouble for nothing.”“Let’s prove it,” said Uncle Richard, smiling. “Go to the kitchen door, and ask the cook for a couple of good-sized pieces of salt and the meat-saw.”The cook stared, but furnished the required pieces, which were soon shaped into flat slabs with the saw. Then a sheet of newspaper was spread, and one of the flat pieces of salt placed upon the other.“There you are, Tom,” said his uncle. “I want you to see for yourself; then you will work better. Now then, grind away, keeping the bottom piece firm, and the top going in circular strokes, the top passing half off the bottom every time.”Tom began, and worked away, while from time to time the lower piece was turned round.“Nice fine salt,” said Uncle Richard; “cook ought to be much obliged.”“It will be as flat as flat,” said Tom to himself, “but I don’t like to tell him so.”“There, that will do,” said Uncle Richard, at the end of ten minutes. “Now then, are the pieces both flat?”“No, uncle; the bottom piece is rounded and the top hollowed, but I can’t see why.”“Then I’ll tell you: because the centre gets rubbed more than the sides, Tom. There, take paper and salt back, and we’ll begin.”Tom caught up the paper, and soon returned, eager to commence; and after a little instruction as to how he was to place his hands upon the top glass, Uncle Richard placed himself exactly opposite to his nephew, with the upturned cask between them.“Now, Tom, it will be a very long and tedious task with this great speculum; hot work for us too, so we must do a bit now and a bit then, so as not to weary ourselves out. Ready?”“Yes, uncle.”“Then off.”“It will be a tiresome job,” thought Tom, as, trying hard to get into regular swing with his uncle, the top glass was pushed to and fro from one to the other; but at each thrust Uncle Richard made a half step to his left, Tom, according to instructions, the same, so that the glass might be ground regularly all over. At the end of a quarter of an hour it was slid on one side, and more water and sand applied. Then on again, and the grinding continued, the weight of the glass making the task very difficult. But Tom worked manfully, encouraged by his uncle’s assurance that every day he would grow more accustomed to the work, and after two more stoppages there was a cessation.“There!” cried Uncle Richard; “one hour’s enough for the first day. It wants faith to go on with such a business, Tom.”As he spoke the future speculum was carefully lifted off the lower one, sponged with clean water, and on examination proved to be pretty well scratched in the middle in a round patch, but the marks grew less and less, till at the edge of the glass it was hardly scratched at all.“There, you see where we bite hardest,” said Uncle Richard; “now we’ll give it a rest, and ourselves too.”“But we shall never get done like this,” cried Tom.“Oh yes, we shall, boy; and I’m not going to leave off our work. Let’s see: this we must call the workshop, the floor above our laboratory, and the top of course the observatory. Now then, let’s go up into our laboratory, and I’ll give you a lesson in elutriation.”
“Now then, we’ll begin,” said Uncle Richard; “and the first thing is to make our mould or gauge, for everything we do must be so exact that we can set distortion at defiance. We must have no aberration, as opticians call it.”
“Begin to polish the glass, uncle?”
“Not yet. Fetch those two pieces of lath.” Tom fetched a couple of thin pieces of wood, each a little over twelve feet long. These were laid upon the bench and screwed together, so as to make one rod just over twenty-four feet long.
Then at one end a hole was made, into which a large brass-headed nail was thrust, while through the other end a sharp-pointed bradawl was bored, so as to leave its sharp point sticking out a quarter of an inch on the other side.
“So far so good,” said Uncle Richard. “Do you know what we are going to do, Tom?” Tom shook his head.
“Strike the curve on that piece of zinc that we are to make our speculum.”
“Curve?” said Tom; “why, it’s quite round now.”
“Yes; the edge is, but we are going to work at the face.”
“But arn’t you going to polish it into a looking-glass?”
“Yes; but not a flat one—a plane. That would be of no use to us, Tom; we must have a parabolic curve.”
“Oh,” said Tom, who only knew parabolas from a cursory acquaintance with them through an old Greek friend called Euclid.
“Be patient, and you’ll soon understand,” continued Uncle Richard, who proceeded to secure the sheet of zinc to a piece of board by means of four tacks at its corners, and ended by carrying it out, and fixing the board just at the bottom of the border, close to the window.
A couple of strong nails at the sides of the board were sufficient, and then he led the way in.
“Now, Tom, take that ball of twine and the hammer, and go up to the top window, open it, and look out.”
The boy did not stop to say “What for?” but ran up-stairs, opened the window, and looked out, to find his uncle beneath with the long rod.
“Lower down the end of the string,” he cried; and this was done, Tom watching, and seeing it tied to the end of the rod where the brass nail stuck through.
“Haul up, Tom.”
The twine was tightened, and the end of the rod drawn up till Tom could take it in his hand.
“Now take away the string.”
This was done.
“Get your hammer.”
“It’s here on the window-sill, uncle.”
“That’s right. Now look here: I want you to lean out, and drive that nail in between two of the bricks, so that this marking-point at my end may hang just a few inches above the bottom of my piece of zinc. I’ll guide it. That’s just right. Now drive in the nail.”
“Must come an inch higher, so that the nail may be opposite a joint.”
“Take it an inch higher, and drive it in.”
This was done, and the rod swung like an immensely long wooden pendulum.
“That’s right,” cried Uncle Richard; “the nail and this point are exactly twenty-four feet apart. Now keep your finger on the head of the nail to steady it while I mark the zinc.”
Tom obeyed, and looked down the while, to see his uncle move the rod to and fro, till he had scored in the sheet of zinc a curve as neatly and more truly than if it had been done with a pair of compasses.
“That’s all, Tom,” he said. “Take out the nail and lower the rod down again carefully, or it will break.”
All this was done, and Tom descended to find that both the rod and the sheet of zinc had been carried in, the latter laid on the bench, and displaying a curve deeply scratched upon it where the sharp-pointed bradawl had been drawn.
“There, Tom,” said Uncle Richard, “that curve is exactly the one we have to make in our speculum, so that we may have a telescope of twelve feet focus. Do you understand?”
“No,” said Tom bluntly.
“Never mind—you soon will. It means that when we have ground out the glass so that it is a hollow of that shape, all the light reflected will meet at a point just twelve feet distant from its surface. Now we have begun in real earnest.”
He now took a keen-edged chisel, and pressing the corner down proceeded to deepen the mark scored in the zinc with the greatest care, until he had cut right through, forming the metal into two moulds, one of which was to gauge the lower disc, the other the upper. The edges of these were then rubbed carefully together as they lay flat upon the bench, till their edges were quite smooth; then some of the unnecessary zinc was cut away, a couple of big holes punched in them, and they were hung upon a couple of nails over the bench ready for use.
“Next thing,” cried Uncle Richard, “is to begin upon the speculum itself, so now for our apparatus. Here we have it all: a bowl of fine sifted silver sand, a bucket of water, and a sponge. Very simple things for bringing the moon so near, eh?”
“But is that all we want, uncle?”
“At present, my boy,” said Uncle Richard, proceeding to wet some of the sand and pretty well cover the disc of glass fixed upon the cask-head. “That’s for grinding, as you see.”
“Yes, uncle; but what are you going to rub it with?”
“The other disc. Here, catch hold. Be careful.”
Tom obeyed, and the smooth piece of plate-glass was laid flat upon the first piece, crushing down the wet sand, and fitting well into its place.
“Now, my boy, if we rub those two together, what will be the effect?”
“Grind the glass,” said Tom. “I once made a transparent slate like that, by rubbing a piece of glass on a stone with some sand and water. But I thought you wanted to hollow out the glass?”
“So I do, Tom.”
“But that will only keep the pieces flat.”
“I beg your pardon, my boy. If we rub and grind them as I propose, one of the discs will be rounded and the other hollowed exactly as I wish.”
Tom stared, for this was to his way of thinking impossible.
“Are you sure you are right, uncle? Because if you are not, it would be so much trouble for nothing.”
“Let’s prove it,” said Uncle Richard, smiling. “Go to the kitchen door, and ask the cook for a couple of good-sized pieces of salt and the meat-saw.”
The cook stared, but furnished the required pieces, which were soon shaped into flat slabs with the saw. Then a sheet of newspaper was spread, and one of the flat pieces of salt placed upon the other.
“There you are, Tom,” said his uncle. “I want you to see for yourself; then you will work better. Now then, grind away, keeping the bottom piece firm, and the top going in circular strokes, the top passing half off the bottom every time.”
Tom began, and worked away, while from time to time the lower piece was turned round.
“Nice fine salt,” said Uncle Richard; “cook ought to be much obliged.”
“It will be as flat as flat,” said Tom to himself, “but I don’t like to tell him so.”
“There, that will do,” said Uncle Richard, at the end of ten minutes. “Now then, are the pieces both flat?”
“No, uncle; the bottom piece is rounded and the top hollowed, but I can’t see why.”
“Then I’ll tell you: because the centre gets rubbed more than the sides, Tom. There, take paper and salt back, and we’ll begin.”
Tom caught up the paper, and soon returned, eager to commence; and after a little instruction as to how he was to place his hands upon the top glass, Uncle Richard placed himself exactly opposite to his nephew, with the upturned cask between them.
“Now, Tom, it will be a very long and tedious task with this great speculum; hot work for us too, so we must do a bit now and a bit then, so as not to weary ourselves out. Ready?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Then off.”
“It will be a tiresome job,” thought Tom, as, trying hard to get into regular swing with his uncle, the top glass was pushed to and fro from one to the other; but at each thrust Uncle Richard made a half step to his left, Tom, according to instructions, the same, so that the glass might be ground regularly all over. At the end of a quarter of an hour it was slid on one side, and more water and sand applied. Then on again, and the grinding continued, the weight of the glass making the task very difficult. But Tom worked manfully, encouraged by his uncle’s assurance that every day he would grow more accustomed to the work, and after two more stoppages there was a cessation.
“There!” cried Uncle Richard; “one hour’s enough for the first day. It wants faith to go on with such a business, Tom.”
As he spoke the future speculum was carefully lifted off the lower one, sponged with clean water, and on examination proved to be pretty well scratched in the middle in a round patch, but the marks grew less and less, till at the edge of the glass it was hardly scratched at all.
“There, you see where we bite hardest,” said Uncle Richard; “now we’ll give it a rest, and ourselves too.”
“But we shall never get done like this,” cried Tom.
“Oh yes, we shall, boy; and I’m not going to leave off our work. Let’s see: this we must call the workshop, the floor above our laboratory, and the top of course the observatory. Now then, let’s go up into our laboratory, and I’ll give you a lesson in elutriation.”
Chapter Thirteen.“I haven’t got a dictionary here, uncle,” said Tom, with a smile, as they stood at the massive table under the window in the laboratory. “I don’t know what elutriation means.”“I dare say not. I didn’t till I was nearly fifty, Tom, but you soon shall know. Fetch that tin off the shelf.”Tom obeyed, and found a label on the top, on which was printed “Best Ground Emery.”“Well, you know what that is?”“Emery? Powdered glass,” said Tom promptly.“Wrong. Diamond cuts diamond, Tom, but we want something stronger than powdered glass to polish itself. Emery is a mineral similar in nature to sapphire and ruby, but they are bright crystals, and emery is found in dull blocks.”“Then it’s very valuable?” said Tom.“Oh, no. It is fairly plentiful in Nature, and much used. Now then, we want coarse emery to grind our speculum after we have done with the sand, and then different degrees to follow, till we get some exquisitely fine for polishing. How are we to divide the contents of that tin so as to graduate our grinding and polishing powder?”“Sift it, of course, uncle.”“And where would you get sieves sufficiently fine at last?”“Muslin?”“Oh, no. Here is where elutriation comes in, Tom; and here you see the use of some of the things I brought back from London the other day. To work. Bring forward that great pan.”This was done.“Now empty in the contents of this packet.”Tom took up a little white paper of something soft, opened it, and poured the contents into the pan.“Powdered gum arabic?” he said.“Yes. Now empty the tin of emery upon it.”Tom opened the tin, and found within a dark chocolate-looking powder, which felt very gritty between his finger and thumb. This he emptied upon the gum arabic, and, in obedience to instructions, thoroughly mixed both together.“To make the fine emery remain longer in suspension,” said his uncle, “keep on stirring, Tom.”“All right, uncle. What, are you going to pour water in? It’s like making a Christmas pudding.”For Uncle Richard took up a can of water, and began to pour a little in as Tom stirred, changing the powder first into a paste, then into a thick mud, then into a thin brown batter, and at last, when a couple of gallons or so had been poured in and the whole well mixed, the great pan was full of a dirty liquid, upon the top of which a scum gathered as the movement ceased. This scum Uncle Richard proceeded to skim off till the surface was quite clear, and then he glanced at his watch.“Is that scum the elutriation?” said Tom, with a faint grin.“No, boy, the impurity; throw it down the sink. Now, Tom, we want to get our finest polishing emery out of that mixture, and it will take an hour to form—sixty-minute emery, the opticians call it; so while it is preparing, we’ll go and have another turn at the speculum.”They descended, leaving the pan standing on the heavy table, and after spreading wet sand upon the lower disc of glass, the loose one was once more set in motion, and uncle and nephew, with quarter-hour rests for examination and wetting the surfaces, patiently ground away for an hour, by which time, upon the speculum being sponged, it was found that the greater part of the upper glass was deeply scratched.“This is going to be an awfully long job,” thought Tom.“Yes, it is,” said his uncle, who aptly read his thoughts, “a very long job, Tom; but good things have to be worked for, boy.”“Oh, I’m not going to be tired, uncle. It’s like working for a grand prize.”“It is. Now then, let’s see to the emery. Our finest must be ready by now. Now I want all the water, from which the emery has settled down to the bottom, drawn off into that great white basin. How is it to be done?”“Pour it off,” said Tom.“No; couldn’t be done without disturbing the bottom. Let’s try syphoning.”Uncle Richard placed the basin upon a stool below the level of the table, took up a glass tube bent somewhat in the shape of a long-shanked hook, placed the short end gently beneath the surface of the nearly clear water, his lips to the long end, drew out the air, and the water followed directly from the atmospheric pressure, and ran swiftly into the basin.As it ran, and Tom watched, Uncle Richard carefully held the short arm of the syphon, guiding it till the sediment at the bottom of the pan was nearly reached, when he quickly withdrew it, and the basin was then placed beside the pan.“There, Tom,” said Uncle Richard, “that’s our sixty-minute emery.”“But I thought you said you wanted it very fine. You’ve only washed it.”“We’re playing at cross purposes, Tom,” said Uncle Richard. “You are talking about the contents of the pan, I about those of the basin.”“What! the clear water—at least nearly clear?”“Ah, there you have hit it, boy—nearly clear. That water contains our finest polishing powder, and it will have to stand till to-morrow to settle.”“Oh!” said Tom, who felt very much in the dark, and he followed his uncle to the neat sink that had been fitted in the laboratory, and helped him wash a series of wide-mouthed stoppered bottles, which were afterwards carefully dried and labelled in a most methodical way.“Saves time, Tom, to be careful,” said Uncle Richard, who now took up a pen and wrote upon the label of the smallest bottle “Emery, 60 min.”“There, that’s for the contents of the big basin.”“Want a genii to get a pailful into that little bottle, uncle,” said Tom, laughing.“We’ll get all we want into it to-morrow, Tom,” was the reply. “Now then, how do you feel—ready for one hour’s more grinding at the speculum, or shall we leave it till to-morrow?”“I want to finish it, and see the moon,” said Tom sturdily, as he rolled up his sleeves a little more tightly. “Let’s get on, uncle, and finish it.”“Or get an hour nearer,” said Uncle Richard; and they went down and ground till Mrs Fidler summoned them to their meal.
“I haven’t got a dictionary here, uncle,” said Tom, with a smile, as they stood at the massive table under the window in the laboratory. “I don’t know what elutriation means.”
“I dare say not. I didn’t till I was nearly fifty, Tom, but you soon shall know. Fetch that tin off the shelf.”
Tom obeyed, and found a label on the top, on which was printed “Best Ground Emery.”
“Well, you know what that is?”
“Emery? Powdered glass,” said Tom promptly.
“Wrong. Diamond cuts diamond, Tom, but we want something stronger than powdered glass to polish itself. Emery is a mineral similar in nature to sapphire and ruby, but they are bright crystals, and emery is found in dull blocks.”
“Then it’s very valuable?” said Tom.
“Oh, no. It is fairly plentiful in Nature, and much used. Now then, we want coarse emery to grind our speculum after we have done with the sand, and then different degrees to follow, till we get some exquisitely fine for polishing. How are we to divide the contents of that tin so as to graduate our grinding and polishing powder?”
“Sift it, of course, uncle.”
“And where would you get sieves sufficiently fine at last?”
“Muslin?”
“Oh, no. Here is where elutriation comes in, Tom; and here you see the use of some of the things I brought back from London the other day. To work. Bring forward that great pan.”
This was done.
“Now empty in the contents of this packet.”
Tom took up a little white paper of something soft, opened it, and poured the contents into the pan.
“Powdered gum arabic?” he said.
“Yes. Now empty the tin of emery upon it.”
Tom opened the tin, and found within a dark chocolate-looking powder, which felt very gritty between his finger and thumb. This he emptied upon the gum arabic, and, in obedience to instructions, thoroughly mixed both together.
“To make the fine emery remain longer in suspension,” said his uncle, “keep on stirring, Tom.”
“All right, uncle. What, are you going to pour water in? It’s like making a Christmas pudding.”
For Uncle Richard took up a can of water, and began to pour a little in as Tom stirred, changing the powder first into a paste, then into a thick mud, then into a thin brown batter, and at last, when a couple of gallons or so had been poured in and the whole well mixed, the great pan was full of a dirty liquid, upon the top of which a scum gathered as the movement ceased. This scum Uncle Richard proceeded to skim off till the surface was quite clear, and then he glanced at his watch.
“Is that scum the elutriation?” said Tom, with a faint grin.
“No, boy, the impurity; throw it down the sink. Now, Tom, we want to get our finest polishing emery out of that mixture, and it will take an hour to form—sixty-minute emery, the opticians call it; so while it is preparing, we’ll go and have another turn at the speculum.”
They descended, leaving the pan standing on the heavy table, and after spreading wet sand upon the lower disc of glass, the loose one was once more set in motion, and uncle and nephew, with quarter-hour rests for examination and wetting the surfaces, patiently ground away for an hour, by which time, upon the speculum being sponged, it was found that the greater part of the upper glass was deeply scratched.
“This is going to be an awfully long job,” thought Tom.
“Yes, it is,” said his uncle, who aptly read his thoughts, “a very long job, Tom; but good things have to be worked for, boy.”
“Oh, I’m not going to be tired, uncle. It’s like working for a grand prize.”
“It is. Now then, let’s see to the emery. Our finest must be ready by now. Now I want all the water, from which the emery has settled down to the bottom, drawn off into that great white basin. How is it to be done?”
“Pour it off,” said Tom.
“No; couldn’t be done without disturbing the bottom. Let’s try syphoning.”
Uncle Richard placed the basin upon a stool below the level of the table, took up a glass tube bent somewhat in the shape of a long-shanked hook, placed the short end gently beneath the surface of the nearly clear water, his lips to the long end, drew out the air, and the water followed directly from the atmospheric pressure, and ran swiftly into the basin.
As it ran, and Tom watched, Uncle Richard carefully held the short arm of the syphon, guiding it till the sediment at the bottom of the pan was nearly reached, when he quickly withdrew it, and the basin was then placed beside the pan.
“There, Tom,” said Uncle Richard, “that’s our sixty-minute emery.”
“But I thought you said you wanted it very fine. You’ve only washed it.”
“We’re playing at cross purposes, Tom,” said Uncle Richard. “You are talking about the contents of the pan, I about those of the basin.”
“What! the clear water—at least nearly clear?”
“Ah, there you have hit it, boy—nearly clear. That water contains our finest polishing powder, and it will have to stand till to-morrow to settle.”
“Oh!” said Tom, who felt very much in the dark, and he followed his uncle to the neat sink that had been fitted in the laboratory, and helped him wash a series of wide-mouthed stoppered bottles, which were afterwards carefully dried and labelled in a most methodical way.
“Saves time, Tom, to be careful,” said Uncle Richard, who now took up a pen and wrote upon the label of the smallest bottle “Emery, 60 min.”
“There, that’s for the contents of the big basin.”
“Want a genii to get a pailful into that little bottle, uncle,” said Tom, laughing.
“We’ll get all we want into it to-morrow, Tom,” was the reply. “Now then, how do you feel—ready for one hour’s more grinding at the speculum, or shall we leave it till to-morrow?”
“I want to finish it, and see the moon,” said Tom sturdily, as he rolled up his sleeves a little more tightly. “Let’s get on, uncle, and finish it.”
“Or get an hour nearer,” said Uncle Richard; and they went down and ground till Mrs Fidler summoned them to their meal.
Chapter Fourteen.The next morning came a letter from Mornington Crescent, announcing that James Brandon had met with an accident, and been knocked down by a cab. The letter was written by Sam, evidently at his father’s dictation, and on the fly-leaf was a postscript self-evidently not at James Brandon’s dictation, for it was as follows—“P.S.—Dear Uncle, there isn’t much the matter, only a few bruises, only the pater makes such a fuss. Thought you’d like to know.”“Charming youth, your cousin,” said Uncle Richard, as he rose and went into his little study to answer the letter, leaving Tom at liberty for a few minutes, which he utilised by going down the garden to where David was busy.“Morning, sir. How’s the machine getting on?”“Capitally, David.”“That’s right, sir. I hope you and the master ’ll make some’at out of it, for people do go on dreadful about it down the village.”“Why, what do you mean?”“Well, sir, of course it’s their higgorance. You and me knows better, and I shouldn’t like master to know, but they lead me a horful life about it all. They say master’s got a crack in his head about that thing he’s making, and that he ought to be stopped.”“Why?” said Tom, laughing.“Oh, it’s nothing to laugh about, sir. They say the place won’t be safe, for he’ll be having a blow-up one of these days with his contrapshums.”“What nonsense!”“Well, sir, I don’t know about that. He did have one, and singed all his hair off, and blew out his libery window.”“Tom!”“Coming, uncle.”“Don’t you say a word to him, sir, please.”“Oh, no; all right, David; and next time the people say anything to you about uncle’s experiments, you tell them they’re a pack of bull-geese!”“Bull-geese!” said David, turning the word over two or three times as if he liked it, “bull-geese! Yes, sir, I will,” and he began to chuckle, while Tom joined his uncle, who was already on his way to the mill.As Tom reached the lane he was just in time to meet Pete Warboys, who came slouching along with his hands as far down in his pockets as he could reach, his boots, two sizes too large, unlaced, and his dog close behind him.Pete’s body went forward as if all together, but his eyes were on the move the while, searching in every direction as if for prey, and settled upon Tom with a peculiarly vindictive stare, while the dog left his master’s side, and began to sniff at Tom’s legs.“Not afraid of you now,” thought the boy, as he remembered the fir-cones, and felt sure that a stone would send the dog flying at any time. But as he met Pete’s eye he did not feel half so sure. For Pete was big-boned and strong, and promised to be an ugly customer in a battle.“And besides, he’s so dirty,” thought Tom, as he passed on to the gate, through which his uncle had just passed.Pete said nothing until Tom had closed the gate. Then there was the appearance of a pair of dirty hands over the coping of the wall, the scraping noise made by a pair of boot toes against the bricks, and next Pete’s head appeared just above the wall, and he uttered the comprehensive word expressive of his contempt, defiance, and general disposition to regard the boy from London as an enemy whose head he felt disposed to punch. Pete’s word was—“Yah!”Tom felt indignant.“Get down off that wall, sir!” he cried.This roused Pete Warboys, who, as the daring outlaw of Furzebrough, desired to play his part manfully, especially so since he was on the other side of the said wall; and, wrinkling up his snub nose, he cried—“She-arn’t! ’Tain’t your wall.”“Get down!” cried Tom fiercely.“Get down yerself. Who are you, I should like to know?”Tom stooped and picked up a clod of earth, and Pete ducked his head, the motion causing his toes to slip out of a crevice between two bricks, and he disappeared, but only to scramble up again.“You heave that at me,” he cried fiercely, “and I’ll come over and smash yer.”Tom felt disposed to risk the smashing, and drew back his hand to throw the clod, when his wrist was caught, for his uncle had heard what passed, and returned to the door.“Don’t do that, my boy,” he said quietly. Then to Pete, “Get down off that wall.”“She-arn’t! Who are you?” cried the great hulking fellow, and he scrambled a little more upward, so as to hang over with his elbows on the top bricks.“Then stop there,” said Uncle Richard quietly. “Don’t take any notice of him, Tom; the fellow is half an idiot.”“So are you!” yelled Pete. “Yah! Who pulled the—”Whack!“Ow! ah!” A scramble, and Pete disappeared as an angry voice was heard on the other side of the wall.“How dare you, sir? Insolent young scoundrel! Be off with you!”“Don’t you hit me!” came in a yelping, snivelling tone. “Don’t you hit me! You hit me, and I’ll—Get out!”There was a dull thud, a yell, and the succession of cries uttered by a dog in pain, generally known as “chy-ike.” For, unable to vent his spleen upon his aggressor, Pete had turned upon his wretched dog, which was unfortunate enough to get between his master’s legs, nearly sending him down as he backed away from a quivering malacca cane. The dog received an awful kick, and ran down the narrow lane, and Pete followed him in a loose-jointed, shambling trot, turned into the pathway between the hedges at the bottom of Uncle Richard’s field, thrust his head back, relieved his feelings by yelling out “Yah!” and disappeared.By this time Tom and his uncle were down at the yard gate, which they threw open, to find themselves face to face with the vicar, a little fresh-coloured, plump, grey man of five-and-forty. His brow was wrinkled with annoyance, and his grey hair and whiskers seemed to bristle, as he changed the stout cane into his left hand, pulled off his right glove, and shook hands.“Good-morning,” he cried; “good-morning—nephew, arn’t you? Glad to know you. Only came back last night, Brandon, and the first thing I encounter in my first walk is that young scoundrel insulting you.”“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Uncle Richard, smiling.“But it is something, my dear sir. After all the pains I took with that boy at our school—when I could get him there—he turns out like this. Really,” he continued, laughing very good-humouredly, and looking down at his cane, “I ought not to have done it,—not becoming in a clergyman,—but the young dog was insulting you, and he was stretched over the wall so tightly. Really—ha, ha!—it was so tempting that I felt obliged.”“Yes, it must have been tempting,” said Uncle Richard. “Well, have you come back quite strong?”“Seems like it,” said the vicar, laughing. Then seriously, “Yes, thank heaven, I feel quite myself again.”“That’s good,” said Uncle Richard. “I am very glad.”“I know you are. And oh, Brandon, you can’t think how glad I am to get back to the dear old place again. My garden looks delightful; and yours?”“Capital.”“But, my dear fellow, what in the world are you doing with the old mill. I heard you had bought it. Sails gone, mended, painted. Why, surely—yes—no—yes, I have it—observatory.”“Right.”“Splendid idea. Capital. You ought to have a big telescope for that.”“Making it,” said Uncle Richard laconically.“Glad of it. Wish I could join you. There, good-bye, so much to do; can’t tell me, I suppose, what to do with that lad Pete Warboys?”Uncle Richard shook his head, and the vicar shook his hand. Then as he went through the same process with Tom, he said—“Glad to know you; I’m sure we shall be very good friends;” and then he hurried away, and the others closed the gate and went into the workshop, where the speculum was waiting to be ground.“You’ll like Mr Maxted,” said Uncle Richard quietly. “A thorough, true-hearted gentleman, who preserves all the best of his boyhood; but come now, work.”“Grinding?” said Tom, stripping off his jacket.“Not yet—elutriation, Tom,” said Uncle Richard, as he led the way up to the laboratory, where the big pan was lifted down upon the stool, and the syphon used to pour the water in the white basin back again.But not quite all. It was clear now, and at the bottom there was just a film of chocolate mud, which was most carefully trickled off with some of the water into the ready labelled little bottle.“There, Tom, that tiny spoonful or two of paste is our finest emery, and valuable in the extreme—to us. The next thing is to get a grade coarser.”“The same way?” said Tom.“Nearly. Stir the whole up again.”This was carefully done, but there was no scum now.“We left the other sixty minutes, Tom,” said Uncle Richard; “this time we’ll leave it thirty minutes. Come along; time for two quarter-hour grinds at the speculum.”They went down, wetted the sand, and ground away for fifteen minutes; washed the glass, started again, and at the end of another fifteen minutes went up to repeat the process of drawing off the thick water into the basin. This was left to stand till evening, when the water was poured back, and about a double quantity of thin paste to that obtained in the morning placed in a size larger bottle, and labelled “thirty-minute emery.”Again the whole was well stirred, and left for fifteen minutes; the process repeated, and a much larger quantity obtained and bottled.The next day the emery was stirred, and allowed to settle for five minutes; then for two minutes, and the remainder bottled by itself, this being by far the largest quantity, and in fact so much strong sharp grit.“There!” cried Uncle Richard; “now, going backwards, we have six different grades of material, beginning with the coarse, and going up to the fine sixty-minute powder or paste for polishing, for these things have to be made exquisitely fine.”At the next attack upon the glass to dig it out into a hollow, the sand was all carefully washed away, showing the disc to be thoroughly scratched all over, and looking somewhat like the inside of a ground-glass globe.“So far so good, Tom,” said Uncle Richard; “now let’s try our mould.”He took down the convex-shaped piece of zinc, and placed it upon the newly-ground-glass, into whose face it descended a little way, but only a very little.“Not deep enough yet, Tom,” he said; “the mould ought to fit into it exactly.”“Yes, I understand now,” said Tom; “we have got to grind more out of the middle.”“Exactly.”“Shall I fetch the sand back?”“No, we will use the coarsest emery now; I dare say that will dig out enough. Now then, number one.”The large-stoppered bottle was fetched from its shelf, and a small portion of the most coarse ground emery taken out with a spatula, spread upon the fixed glass, the speculum carefully laid upon it, and turned a little to spread the material more equally, a few drops of water having been added, and the slow, tedious grinding went on again.“Hard work, my boy,” said Uncle Richard, as they paused at last from their laborious work, the disc they moved to and fro and round and round, as they slowly changed their positions, being exceedingly heavy.But Tom, as soon as he got his breath, was too much interested to mind the labour, and after helping to lift one disc from the other, he looked on eagerly at his uncle’s busy fingers, as he carefully sponged and cleaned both glasses.“See how the coarse emery we began with has become ground down.”“Yes, into a slime,” said Tom.“Partly glass,” said Uncle Richard, as he drew attention now to the face of the speculum, which was scratched more deeply already, and displayed a different grain.Fresh emery out of the bottle was applied, moistened a little more, and the grinding went on for a while. Then there was a fresh washing, more of the coarse emery applied, and so the task went on hour after hour that day and the next, when in the afternoon when the zinc mould was applied to the surface it fitted in almost exactly, and Tom gave a cheer.“Yes, that will do,” said Uncle Richard, whose face glowed with the exertion.“What next then?” said Tom eagerly.“The next grade of emery, boy,” was the reply; “our task is of course now not to grind the speculum deeply, but to grind out all these scratches till it is as limpid as the surface of pure water.”“Don’t look possible,” said Tom. “Well, we will try.”The next morning they worked for an hour before breakfast in precisely the same way, gave a couple of hours to the task after breakfast, two more in the afternoon, and one in the evening—“a regular muscle-softener,” Uncle Richard called it; but when for the last time the finely-ground emery number two was washed off, and the speculum examined, its surface looked much better, the rougher scratchings having disappeared.Tom was all eagerness to begin the next day, when the number three emery was tried in precisely the same way. Then came work with the number four, very little of which was used at a time; and when this was put aside for number five, Tom again cheered, for the concave surface had become beautifully fine.“Two more workings, and then the finishing,” said Uncle Richard. “Think we shall polish out all the scratchings?”“Why, they are gone now,” cried Tom.“Yes, it shows what patience will do,” said Uncle Richard; “a man can’t lift a house all at once, but he could do it a brick at a time.”The speculum was carefully placed aside after its cleansing, and the pair of amateur opticians locked up the place after hanging up their aprons.“Wouldn’t do to break that now, Tom, my boy.”“Break it?” cried the boy; “oh, it would be horrible. Why, we should have to make another, and go through all that again.”“Yes, Tom, but we could do it. I know of a gentleman who made a hundred of these specula with his own hands. But there will be something more interesting for you to see to-morrow.”“What, shall we get it done?”“By no means; but first thing of all I must test it, and to do this easily, we must be up early when the sun is shining in at the east window of our workshop. Do you think you can call me by five?”“I’m sure of it, uncle,” cried Tom.
The next morning came a letter from Mornington Crescent, announcing that James Brandon had met with an accident, and been knocked down by a cab. The letter was written by Sam, evidently at his father’s dictation, and on the fly-leaf was a postscript self-evidently not at James Brandon’s dictation, for it was as follows—
“P.S.—Dear Uncle, there isn’t much the matter, only a few bruises, only the pater makes such a fuss. Thought you’d like to know.”
“P.S.—Dear Uncle, there isn’t much the matter, only a few bruises, only the pater makes such a fuss. Thought you’d like to know.”
“Charming youth, your cousin,” said Uncle Richard, as he rose and went into his little study to answer the letter, leaving Tom at liberty for a few minutes, which he utilised by going down the garden to where David was busy.
“Morning, sir. How’s the machine getting on?”
“Capitally, David.”
“That’s right, sir. I hope you and the master ’ll make some’at out of it, for people do go on dreadful about it down the village.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“Well, sir, of course it’s their higgorance. You and me knows better, and I shouldn’t like master to know, but they lead me a horful life about it all. They say master’s got a crack in his head about that thing he’s making, and that he ought to be stopped.”
“Why?” said Tom, laughing.
“Oh, it’s nothing to laugh about, sir. They say the place won’t be safe, for he’ll be having a blow-up one of these days with his contrapshums.”
“What nonsense!”
“Well, sir, I don’t know about that. He did have one, and singed all his hair off, and blew out his libery window.”
“Tom!”
“Coming, uncle.”
“Don’t you say a word to him, sir, please.”
“Oh, no; all right, David; and next time the people say anything to you about uncle’s experiments, you tell them they’re a pack of bull-geese!”
“Bull-geese!” said David, turning the word over two or three times as if he liked it, “bull-geese! Yes, sir, I will,” and he began to chuckle, while Tom joined his uncle, who was already on his way to the mill.
As Tom reached the lane he was just in time to meet Pete Warboys, who came slouching along with his hands as far down in his pockets as he could reach, his boots, two sizes too large, unlaced, and his dog close behind him.
Pete’s body went forward as if all together, but his eyes were on the move the while, searching in every direction as if for prey, and settled upon Tom with a peculiarly vindictive stare, while the dog left his master’s side, and began to sniff at Tom’s legs.
“Not afraid of you now,” thought the boy, as he remembered the fir-cones, and felt sure that a stone would send the dog flying at any time. But as he met Pete’s eye he did not feel half so sure. For Pete was big-boned and strong, and promised to be an ugly customer in a battle.
“And besides, he’s so dirty,” thought Tom, as he passed on to the gate, through which his uncle had just passed.
Pete said nothing until Tom had closed the gate. Then there was the appearance of a pair of dirty hands over the coping of the wall, the scraping noise made by a pair of boot toes against the bricks, and next Pete’s head appeared just above the wall, and he uttered the comprehensive word expressive of his contempt, defiance, and general disposition to regard the boy from London as an enemy whose head he felt disposed to punch. Pete’s word was—
“Yah!”
Tom felt indignant.
“Get down off that wall, sir!” he cried.
This roused Pete Warboys, who, as the daring outlaw of Furzebrough, desired to play his part manfully, especially so since he was on the other side of the said wall; and, wrinkling up his snub nose, he cried—
“She-arn’t! ’Tain’t your wall.”
“Get down!” cried Tom fiercely.
“Get down yerself. Who are you, I should like to know?”
Tom stooped and picked up a clod of earth, and Pete ducked his head, the motion causing his toes to slip out of a crevice between two bricks, and he disappeared, but only to scramble up again.
“You heave that at me,” he cried fiercely, “and I’ll come over and smash yer.”
Tom felt disposed to risk the smashing, and drew back his hand to throw the clod, when his wrist was caught, for his uncle had heard what passed, and returned to the door.
“Don’t do that, my boy,” he said quietly. Then to Pete, “Get down off that wall.”
“She-arn’t! Who are you?” cried the great hulking fellow, and he scrambled a little more upward, so as to hang over with his elbows on the top bricks.
“Then stop there,” said Uncle Richard quietly. “Don’t take any notice of him, Tom; the fellow is half an idiot.”
“So are you!” yelled Pete. “Yah! Who pulled the—”
Whack!
“Ow! ah!” A scramble, and Pete disappeared as an angry voice was heard on the other side of the wall.
“How dare you, sir? Insolent young scoundrel! Be off with you!”
“Don’t you hit me!” came in a yelping, snivelling tone. “Don’t you hit me! You hit me, and I’ll—Get out!”
There was a dull thud, a yell, and the succession of cries uttered by a dog in pain, generally known as “chy-ike.” For, unable to vent his spleen upon his aggressor, Pete had turned upon his wretched dog, which was unfortunate enough to get between his master’s legs, nearly sending him down as he backed away from a quivering malacca cane. The dog received an awful kick, and ran down the narrow lane, and Pete followed him in a loose-jointed, shambling trot, turned into the pathway between the hedges at the bottom of Uncle Richard’s field, thrust his head back, relieved his feelings by yelling out “Yah!” and disappeared.
By this time Tom and his uncle were down at the yard gate, which they threw open, to find themselves face to face with the vicar, a little fresh-coloured, plump, grey man of five-and-forty. His brow was wrinkled with annoyance, and his grey hair and whiskers seemed to bristle, as he changed the stout cane into his left hand, pulled off his right glove, and shook hands.
“Good-morning,” he cried; “good-morning—nephew, arn’t you? Glad to know you. Only came back last night, Brandon, and the first thing I encounter in my first walk is that young scoundrel insulting you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Uncle Richard, smiling.
“But it is something, my dear sir. After all the pains I took with that boy at our school—when I could get him there—he turns out like this. Really,” he continued, laughing very good-humouredly, and looking down at his cane, “I ought not to have done it,—not becoming in a clergyman,—but the young dog was insulting you, and he was stretched over the wall so tightly. Really—ha, ha!—it was so tempting that I felt obliged.”
“Yes, it must have been tempting,” said Uncle Richard. “Well, have you come back quite strong?”
“Seems like it,” said the vicar, laughing. Then seriously, “Yes, thank heaven, I feel quite myself again.”
“That’s good,” said Uncle Richard. “I am very glad.”
“I know you are. And oh, Brandon, you can’t think how glad I am to get back to the dear old place again. My garden looks delightful; and yours?”
“Capital.”
“But, my dear fellow, what in the world are you doing with the old mill. I heard you had bought it. Sails gone, mended, painted. Why, surely—yes—no—yes, I have it—observatory.”
“Right.”
“Splendid idea. Capital. You ought to have a big telescope for that.”
“Making it,” said Uncle Richard laconically.
“Glad of it. Wish I could join you. There, good-bye, so much to do; can’t tell me, I suppose, what to do with that lad Pete Warboys?”
Uncle Richard shook his head, and the vicar shook his hand. Then as he went through the same process with Tom, he said—
“Glad to know you; I’m sure we shall be very good friends;” and then he hurried away, and the others closed the gate and went into the workshop, where the speculum was waiting to be ground.
“You’ll like Mr Maxted,” said Uncle Richard quietly. “A thorough, true-hearted gentleman, who preserves all the best of his boyhood; but come now, work.”
“Grinding?” said Tom, stripping off his jacket.
“Not yet—elutriation, Tom,” said Uncle Richard, as he led the way up to the laboratory, where the big pan was lifted down upon the stool, and the syphon used to pour the water in the white basin back again.
But not quite all. It was clear now, and at the bottom there was just a film of chocolate mud, which was most carefully trickled off with some of the water into the ready labelled little bottle.
“There, Tom, that tiny spoonful or two of paste is our finest emery, and valuable in the extreme—to us. The next thing is to get a grade coarser.”
“The same way?” said Tom.
“Nearly. Stir the whole up again.”
This was carefully done, but there was no scum now.
“We left the other sixty minutes, Tom,” said Uncle Richard; “this time we’ll leave it thirty minutes. Come along; time for two quarter-hour grinds at the speculum.”
They went down, wetted the sand, and ground away for fifteen minutes; washed the glass, started again, and at the end of another fifteen minutes went up to repeat the process of drawing off the thick water into the basin. This was left to stand till evening, when the water was poured back, and about a double quantity of thin paste to that obtained in the morning placed in a size larger bottle, and labelled “thirty-minute emery.”
Again the whole was well stirred, and left for fifteen minutes; the process repeated, and a much larger quantity obtained and bottled.
The next day the emery was stirred, and allowed to settle for five minutes; then for two minutes, and the remainder bottled by itself, this being by far the largest quantity, and in fact so much strong sharp grit.
“There!” cried Uncle Richard; “now, going backwards, we have six different grades of material, beginning with the coarse, and going up to the fine sixty-minute powder or paste for polishing, for these things have to be made exquisitely fine.”
At the next attack upon the glass to dig it out into a hollow, the sand was all carefully washed away, showing the disc to be thoroughly scratched all over, and looking somewhat like the inside of a ground-glass globe.
“So far so good, Tom,” said Uncle Richard; “now let’s try our mould.”
He took down the convex-shaped piece of zinc, and placed it upon the newly-ground-glass, into whose face it descended a little way, but only a very little.
“Not deep enough yet, Tom,” he said; “the mould ought to fit into it exactly.”
“Yes, I understand now,” said Tom; “we have got to grind more out of the middle.”
“Exactly.”
“Shall I fetch the sand back?”
“No, we will use the coarsest emery now; I dare say that will dig out enough. Now then, number one.”
The large-stoppered bottle was fetched from its shelf, and a small portion of the most coarse ground emery taken out with a spatula, spread upon the fixed glass, the speculum carefully laid upon it, and turned a little to spread the material more equally, a few drops of water having been added, and the slow, tedious grinding went on again.
“Hard work, my boy,” said Uncle Richard, as they paused at last from their laborious work, the disc they moved to and fro and round and round, as they slowly changed their positions, being exceedingly heavy.
But Tom, as soon as he got his breath, was too much interested to mind the labour, and after helping to lift one disc from the other, he looked on eagerly at his uncle’s busy fingers, as he carefully sponged and cleaned both glasses.
“See how the coarse emery we began with has become ground down.”
“Yes, into a slime,” said Tom.
“Partly glass,” said Uncle Richard, as he drew attention now to the face of the speculum, which was scratched more deeply already, and displayed a different grain.
Fresh emery out of the bottle was applied, moistened a little more, and the grinding went on for a while. Then there was a fresh washing, more of the coarse emery applied, and so the task went on hour after hour that day and the next, when in the afternoon when the zinc mould was applied to the surface it fitted in almost exactly, and Tom gave a cheer.
“Yes, that will do,” said Uncle Richard, whose face glowed with the exertion.
“What next then?” said Tom eagerly.
“The next grade of emery, boy,” was the reply; “our task is of course now not to grind the speculum deeply, but to grind out all these scratches till it is as limpid as the surface of pure water.”
“Don’t look possible,” said Tom. “Well, we will try.”
The next morning they worked for an hour before breakfast in precisely the same way, gave a couple of hours to the task after breakfast, two more in the afternoon, and one in the evening—“a regular muscle-softener,” Uncle Richard called it; but when for the last time the finely-ground emery number two was washed off, and the speculum examined, its surface looked much better, the rougher scratchings having disappeared.
Tom was all eagerness to begin the next day, when the number three emery was tried in precisely the same way. Then came work with the number four, very little of which was used at a time; and when this was put aside for number five, Tom again cheered, for the concave surface had become beautifully fine.
“Two more workings, and then the finishing,” said Uncle Richard. “Think we shall polish out all the scratchings?”
“Why, they are gone now,” cried Tom.
“Yes, it shows what patience will do,” said Uncle Richard; “a man can’t lift a house all at once, but he could do it a brick at a time.”
The speculum was carefully placed aside after its cleansing, and the pair of amateur opticians locked up the place after hanging up their aprons.
“Wouldn’t do to break that now, Tom, my boy.”
“Break it?” cried the boy; “oh, it would be horrible. Why, we should have to make another, and go through all that again.”
“Yes, Tom, but we could do it. I know of a gentleman who made a hundred of these specula with his own hands. But there will be something more interesting for you to see to-morrow.”
“What, shall we get it done?”
“By no means; but first thing of all I must test it, and to do this easily, we must be up early when the sun is shining in at the east window of our workshop. Do you think you can call me by five?”
“I’m sure of it, uncle,” cried Tom.
Chapter Fifteen.Tom kept his word, for he started into wakefulness in the grey dawn out of an uncomfortable dream, in which he had seen the unfinished speculum fall off the bench on to the stone-floor, roll like a wheel out of the door, down the slope to the gate, bound over, and then go spinning down the lane and across the green, straight for the ragstone churchyard wall, where it was shivered to pieces.“Only a dream,” he said, as he leaped out of bed, ran to the window, and saw by the church clock that it was only half-past four.“Time to go over and see if it is all right,” he said, as he finished dressing, “and then come back and call uncle.”Going down-stairs, he took the keys of the mill from where they hung by the front door, went out into the garden, unlocked the gate, and went across to the mill, where, on peering through the window, he could see the glass lying just as it had been left.“That’s all right,” said Tom; and he walked round by the back of the tower to see how the flowers and shrubs looked, when, to his startled surprise, he found footprints made by a heavy, clumsy pair of boots on the border beneath the wall.Their meaning was plain enough. Some one had walked along there, and got out of the yard over the wall, while, upon a little further search, he found the spot where whoever it was had entered the yard by jumping down, the prints of two heels being deeply-marked in the newly-dug earth.“That must have been Pete,” said Tom, flushing; and he looked over the wall, half expecting to see the slouching figure of the lad.But there was no one within sight, and he looked round the yard in search of the visitor’s object. There was nothing but the old millstones stealable, and they stood here and there where they had been leaned against tower and wall; and at ten minutes to five, after noting that the sun was shining brightly, Sam went back to his uncle and called him, and at half-past five they went together to the mill-yard, where the footprints were pointed out.“Have to keep the door carefully locked, Tom,” said Uncle Richard. “Hah! capital! the sun will be shining right through that window in a few minutes.”They entered the workshop, where a bench was drawn opposite to the last window, and about twelve feet away. To this, with Tom’s help, the partly-polished speculum was borne.“Not very bright for a reflector, Tom,” said Uncle Richard. “What am I to do to make it brighter?”“Go on polishing, uncle.”“Ah, but I want to test it this morning, to see if we have a good curve,” said Tom’s elder, smiling. “Fill the sponge with clean water and bring it here.”This was done, and the finely-ground surface was freely wetted, with the effect that it became far more luminous directly.“Now, Tom,” said his uncle, “I’m going to show you something in reflection. The sun is not quite high enough for the speculum, so give me that piece of looking-glass.”This was handed to him, and he held it on high, so that the low-down sun shone into it, and a reflection was cast from it back upon the wall just above the window.“See that?”“Yes, uncle. Done that many a time. Used to call it making jack-o’-lanterns.”“Well, that is the effect of a reflection from a flat or plane surface; the rays of light strike back at the same angle as they hit the surface. Now then, I’ll show you what happens from a curved surface.”He passed the sponge rapidly over the ground speculum again, so as to glaze it—so to speak—with water, raised it upon its edge with the carefully-ground face directed at the window just as the sun rose high enough to shine in; and then by turning the great mirror slightly, the light reflected from it struck upon the wall at the side of the window.“Now, Tom, what do you see?”“A round spot of light about as big as a two-shilling piece,” said the boy.“Yes; all the rays of light which fall upon our mirror, gradually drawn together to where they form an image of the sun. It is only dull, my boy, but so far finely perfect, and we can say that we have gone on very successfully.”As he spoke he laid the mirror down upon its back.“Is that all you are going to do?” asked Tom.“Yes; I can test it no better till it is more advanced, my boy. It may seem a little thing to you, but it is enough to show me that we may go on, and not begin our work all over again. Now for a good turn until breakfast-time. Two good hours’ work ought to produce some effect.”The lower disc, now become convex, was wetted and lightly touched over with number five emery, which seemed soft enough for anything; the well-advanced mirror was turned over upon it, fitting now very closely, and with the sweet morning air floating in from the pine-woods, and the birds singing all around, the monotonous task went on with its intermissions till Uncle Richard gave the final wash off, and said—“Breakfast!”They were so far advanced now that Tom was as eager to recommence as his uncle, and by that evening so much progress had been made that the setting sun was made to shine in upon it, to be reflected back in a bright spot on the wall without the aid of water; while two evenings later, when the great round glass was stood all dry the polish upon it was limpid, and seemed to be as pure as could be. There was not the faintest scratch visible, and Tom cried in triumph—“There, now it is done! Oh, uncle, it is grand!”“Grand enough so far, my boy. We have succeeded almost beyond my expectations; but that is only the first stage.”“First—stage?” faltered Tom, looking at his uncle aghast.“Yes, boy; we have succeeded in making a beautiful spherical concave mirror, which could be of no use whatever for my purpose.”“Then why did we make it?” cried Tom. “For practice?”“No, boy; because it is the step towards making an ellipse, or, as they call it when shaped for a reflecting telescope, a parabola. You know what an ellipse is?”“Gooseberry,” said Tom bluntly.“Gooseberry-shaped,” said his uncle. “Well then, what is a parabola?”“One of those things we used to learn about in geometry.”“Good. Well, to-morrow we must begin polishing, or rather I must, to turn our glass from a spherical-curved mirror into a parabola.”“You’ll let me help, uncle?”“As much as I can, my boy; but the amount I have to polish off, in what is called figuring, is so small that it requires the most delicate of treatment, and first of all we have to prepare a small polisher to work by hand.”This was formed of lead in the course of the next day—a nearly flat but slightly convex disc, with a handle upon its back, and when made perfectly smooth it was covered with hot pitch, which, as it cooled, was made to take the exact curve of the nearly finished mirror, by being pressed upon it, the pitch yielding sufficiently for the purpose.This done the pitch was scored across and across, till it was divided into squares, with little channels between them, so that the polishing powder and water might run freely between; then a final pressure was given upon the mirror and the implement was left to harden till the next day.“Now for a few hours’ polishing,” said Uncle Richard the next morning, as he took up the curved pitch tool and moistened it, no longer with emery, but with fine moistened rouge; “and if I am successful in slightly graduating off the sides here, and flattening them in an infinitesimal degree, we shall have a good reflector for our future work.”But upon testing it the result that evening was not considered satisfactory. There were several zones to be corrected.It was the same the next day, and the next. But on the fourth Uncle Richard cried “Hold: enough! I think that is as good as an amateur can make a speculum, and we’ll be content.”That night Tom slept so soundly that he did not dream till morning, and then it was of the sun resenting being looked at, and burning his cheek, which possessed some fact, for the blind was a little drawn on one side, and the bright rays were full upon his face.“All that time spent in making the reflector!” thought Tom; “and all that work. I wonder what the next bit will be.”
Tom kept his word, for he started into wakefulness in the grey dawn out of an uncomfortable dream, in which he had seen the unfinished speculum fall off the bench on to the stone-floor, roll like a wheel out of the door, down the slope to the gate, bound over, and then go spinning down the lane and across the green, straight for the ragstone churchyard wall, where it was shivered to pieces.
“Only a dream,” he said, as he leaped out of bed, ran to the window, and saw by the church clock that it was only half-past four.
“Time to go over and see if it is all right,” he said, as he finished dressing, “and then come back and call uncle.”
Going down-stairs, he took the keys of the mill from where they hung by the front door, went out into the garden, unlocked the gate, and went across to the mill, where, on peering through the window, he could see the glass lying just as it had been left.
“That’s all right,” said Tom; and he walked round by the back of the tower to see how the flowers and shrubs looked, when, to his startled surprise, he found footprints made by a heavy, clumsy pair of boots on the border beneath the wall.
Their meaning was plain enough. Some one had walked along there, and got out of the yard over the wall, while, upon a little further search, he found the spot where whoever it was had entered the yard by jumping down, the prints of two heels being deeply-marked in the newly-dug earth.
“That must have been Pete,” said Tom, flushing; and he looked over the wall, half expecting to see the slouching figure of the lad.
But there was no one within sight, and he looked round the yard in search of the visitor’s object. There was nothing but the old millstones stealable, and they stood here and there where they had been leaned against tower and wall; and at ten minutes to five, after noting that the sun was shining brightly, Sam went back to his uncle and called him, and at half-past five they went together to the mill-yard, where the footprints were pointed out.
“Have to keep the door carefully locked, Tom,” said Uncle Richard. “Hah! capital! the sun will be shining right through that window in a few minutes.”
They entered the workshop, where a bench was drawn opposite to the last window, and about twelve feet away. To this, with Tom’s help, the partly-polished speculum was borne.
“Not very bright for a reflector, Tom,” said Uncle Richard. “What am I to do to make it brighter?”
“Go on polishing, uncle.”
“Ah, but I want to test it this morning, to see if we have a good curve,” said Tom’s elder, smiling. “Fill the sponge with clean water and bring it here.”
This was done, and the finely-ground surface was freely wetted, with the effect that it became far more luminous directly.
“Now, Tom,” said his uncle, “I’m going to show you something in reflection. The sun is not quite high enough for the speculum, so give me that piece of looking-glass.”
This was handed to him, and he held it on high, so that the low-down sun shone into it, and a reflection was cast from it back upon the wall just above the window.
“See that?”
“Yes, uncle. Done that many a time. Used to call it making jack-o’-lanterns.”
“Well, that is the effect of a reflection from a flat or plane surface; the rays of light strike back at the same angle as they hit the surface. Now then, I’ll show you what happens from a curved surface.”
He passed the sponge rapidly over the ground speculum again, so as to glaze it—so to speak—with water, raised it upon its edge with the carefully-ground face directed at the window just as the sun rose high enough to shine in; and then by turning the great mirror slightly, the light reflected from it struck upon the wall at the side of the window.
“Now, Tom, what do you see?”
“A round spot of light about as big as a two-shilling piece,” said the boy.
“Yes; all the rays of light which fall upon our mirror, gradually drawn together to where they form an image of the sun. It is only dull, my boy, but so far finely perfect, and we can say that we have gone on very successfully.”
As he spoke he laid the mirror down upon its back.
“Is that all you are going to do?” asked Tom.
“Yes; I can test it no better till it is more advanced, my boy. It may seem a little thing to you, but it is enough to show me that we may go on, and not begin our work all over again. Now for a good turn until breakfast-time. Two good hours’ work ought to produce some effect.”
The lower disc, now become convex, was wetted and lightly touched over with number five emery, which seemed soft enough for anything; the well-advanced mirror was turned over upon it, fitting now very closely, and with the sweet morning air floating in from the pine-woods, and the birds singing all around, the monotonous task went on with its intermissions till Uncle Richard gave the final wash off, and said—“Breakfast!”
They were so far advanced now that Tom was as eager to recommence as his uncle, and by that evening so much progress had been made that the setting sun was made to shine in upon it, to be reflected back in a bright spot on the wall without the aid of water; while two evenings later, when the great round glass was stood all dry the polish upon it was limpid, and seemed to be as pure as could be. There was not the faintest scratch visible, and Tom cried in triumph—
“There, now it is done! Oh, uncle, it is grand!”
“Grand enough so far, my boy. We have succeeded almost beyond my expectations; but that is only the first stage.”
“First—stage?” faltered Tom, looking at his uncle aghast.
“Yes, boy; we have succeeded in making a beautiful spherical concave mirror, which could be of no use whatever for my purpose.”
“Then why did we make it?” cried Tom. “For practice?”
“No, boy; because it is the step towards making an ellipse, or, as they call it when shaped for a reflecting telescope, a parabola. You know what an ellipse is?”
“Gooseberry,” said Tom bluntly.
“Gooseberry-shaped,” said his uncle. “Well then, what is a parabola?”
“One of those things we used to learn about in geometry.”
“Good. Well, to-morrow we must begin polishing, or rather I must, to turn our glass from a spherical-curved mirror into a parabola.”
“You’ll let me help, uncle?”
“As much as I can, my boy; but the amount I have to polish off, in what is called figuring, is so small that it requires the most delicate of treatment, and first of all we have to prepare a small polisher to work by hand.”
This was formed of lead in the course of the next day—a nearly flat but slightly convex disc, with a handle upon its back, and when made perfectly smooth it was covered with hot pitch, which, as it cooled, was made to take the exact curve of the nearly finished mirror, by being pressed upon it, the pitch yielding sufficiently for the purpose.
This done the pitch was scored across and across, till it was divided into squares, with little channels between them, so that the polishing powder and water might run freely between; then a final pressure was given upon the mirror and the implement was left to harden till the next day.
“Now for a few hours’ polishing,” said Uncle Richard the next morning, as he took up the curved pitch tool and moistened it, no longer with emery, but with fine moistened rouge; “and if I am successful in slightly graduating off the sides here, and flattening them in an infinitesimal degree, we shall have a good reflector for our future work.”
But upon testing it the result that evening was not considered satisfactory. There were several zones to be corrected.
It was the same the next day, and the next. But on the fourth Uncle Richard cried “Hold: enough! I think that is as good as an amateur can make a speculum, and we’ll be content.”
That night Tom slept so soundly that he did not dream till morning, and then it was of the sun resenting being looked at, and burning his cheek, which possessed some fact, for the blind was a little drawn on one side, and the bright rays were full upon his face.
“All that time spent in making the reflector!” thought Tom; “and all that work. I wonder what the next bit will be.”
Chapter Sixteen.“Now, uncle, what’s the next thing to be done?” said Tom at breakfast that morning.“I think we may begin the body of the telescope now, Tom,” said his uncle.“The body?”“Yes; the speculum is what we might call the life of the whole instrument, and the rest will be simplicity itself. We’ve got to bring a little mechanical work to bear, and the thing is done.”“But it will want a lot of glasses fixed about in a big tube, won’t it?”“No; nothing but the flat and eye-pieces, and I have the lenses to make these. By the way, I have some letters to write, and shall be busy all the morning. Your uncle seems to be still unwell, and I must write to him, for one thing. I tell you what I want done. We have no place there for keeping papers or drawings in, and where one can sit down and write at times, and lock up afterwards. I’ve been thinking that I’ll have the big old bureau desk with its drawers taken out of the study, and carried up into the laboratory. It can stand beneath the shelves on the right of the east window; and you might take up a chair or two, and a piece of old carpet as well. Get David to help you.”“All right, uncle.”So when breakfast was over, Tom went out and found David, who was sticking stakes along the outside of the asparagus bed, and tying tarred twine from one to the other, so as to keep the plume-like stems from blowing about and breaking.“Mornin’, Master Tom,” he said. “I say, my Maria Louisas are swelling out fast. We shall soon have to be on the look-out for pear-ketchers.”“All right, David, I’ll help you. I hope it is Pete Warboys. I should like to give him stick.”“We’ll give him stake instead, Master Tom.”“Never mind that now. I want you to help me move that chest of drawers and desk out of uncle’s study to the laboratory.”“Very good, sir; but you might call a spade a spade.”“What do you mean?” said Tom, staring.“Labor hatory, sir! why don’t you say windmill?”“Because it has been made into an observatory, laboratory, and workshop all in one,” said Tom, rather stiffly.“Just as you like, Master Tom; but you may take the sails off, and the fan, and put all the rattle-traps in it you like, but it can’t make it anything but what it was born to be, and that was a windmill.”“Well, we won’t argue,” said Tom. “Come along.”He led the way to the study, where Uncle Richard was seated at a table writing, and it being a particularly dry day, David spent about five minutes wiping nothing off his shoes on every mat he passed, to Tom’s great amusement. Then after making a bow and a scrape to his master which were not seen, he gave his nose a rub with his cuff, and went back to put his hat outside the door.“Come along, David,” said Tom. “This is it.”The gardener went on tiptoe to the end of the old escritoire, stooped, lifted it, and shook his head.“You can’t manage one end o’ that, Master Tom,” he said in a hoarse whisper.“No, too weighty,” said his master; and without looking round he passed his keys. “Take out the drawers, they’re heavy, and carry them separately.”This plan was followed out, each taking a drawer and carrying it out through the garden, and across the lane to the yard gate, which Tom unlocked after resting his drawer on the wall; leaving it there while he ran up and unlocked the tower door, then going back for the load he had left.These two drawers were carried into the stone-floored workshop, where the bench under the window was covered with an old blanket, another doing duty as cover for the glass tool which had been replaced on the head of the cask.“My word! what a differ there is here,” said David, as he glanced round with the drawer in his hands. “What yer put to bed under they blankets, sir?”“Specula, David.”“Speckle-hay? What, are you forcing on ’em?”“Forcing?” said Tom, laughing.“Yes; are they coming up?”“Nonsense! Here are those two great pieces of glass uncle brought down. We’ve been polishing one.”“Oh! them,” cried David. “My word! Wonder what old miller would ha’ said to see his place ramfoozled about like this?”“Come along,” cried Tom; and the drawers were carried up, each being crammed full of papers and books, and laid on the floor close to the old mill-post.“Worser and worser,” said David, looking round. “Dear, dear! the times I’ve been up here when the sacks was standing all about, some flour and some wheat, and the stones spinning round, the hopper going tippenny tap—tippenny tap, and the meal-dust so thick you could hardly breathe. I ’member coming out one night, and going home, and my missus says to me, ‘Why, Davy, old man, what yer been a-doing on? Yer head’s all powdered up like Squire Winkum’s footman.’ It was only meal, yer know.”“And now you can come and go without getting white, David,” said Tom, moving a stool from under the newly put up shelves. “This is where the bureau is to go.”“Is it now?” said David, scratching his head. “Why that’s where the old bin used to be. Ay, I’ve set on that bin many’s the time on a windy night, when miller wanted to get a lot o’ grist done.”“Back again,” said Tom; and two more drawers were carried over. Then the framework and desk were fetched, with Mrs Fidler standing ready, dustpan and brush in hand, to remove any dirt and fluff that might be underneath.“Tidy heavy now, Master Tom,” said David, as they bore the old walnut-wood piece of furniture across the garden and up to the mill, only setting it down once just inside the yard by way of a rest, and to close the gate.Then the piece of furniture was carried in, and after some little scheming, hoisted up the steep ladder flight of steps, David getting under it and forcing it up with his head.“Wonderful heavy bit o’ wood, Master Tom,” said the gardener.“It’s an awkward place to get it up, David,” replied the boy. “Now then, just under those shelves. It will stand capitally there, and get plenty of light for writing.”But the bureau did not stand capitally there, for the back feet were higher than the front, consequent upon the floor having sunk from the weight of millstones in the middle.“She’ll want a couple o’ wedges under her, Master Tom,” said David.“Yes. I’ve got a couple of pieces that will just do—part of a little box,” cried Tom. “I’ll fetch them, and the saw to cut the exact size. You wait here.”“And put the drawers in, sir?”“Not till we’ve got this right,” replied Tom, who was already at the head of the steps; and he ran down and across to the house, obtained the saw from the tool-chest, and hurried back to the mill, where he found David down in the workshop, waiting for him with his hands in his pockets.“Didn’t yer uncle ought to leave his tool-chest over here, sir?” said the gardener.“Oh yes, I suppose he will,” said Tom. “It would be handier. Halloo, did you open that window?”“No, sir. I see it ajar like when we first came, and it just blowed open like when the door was swung back.”Tom said no more, but led the way up-stairs, where the pieces of wood were wedged in under the front legs, sawn off square, and the drawers were replaced.“Capital, Master Tom,” cried the gardener. “You’d make quite a carpenter. I say, what’s it like up-stairs?”“Come and see,” said Tom, ready to idle a little now the work was done, and very proud of the place he had helped to contrive.David tightened his blue serge apron roll about his waist, and followed up into the observatory, smiling, but ready to depreciate everything.“Ay, but it’s a big change,” he said; “no sacks o’ wheat, no reg’lar machinery. There’s the master’s tallow scoop; he give me a look through it once, and there was the moon all covered with spots o’ grease like you see on soup sometimes. Well, it’s his’n, and he’s a right to do what he likes with the place. Ah, many’s the time I’ve been up here too. Why, Jose the carpenter chap’s cut away the top of the post here. You used to be able to move a bit of an iron contrapshum, and that would send the fan spinning, and the whole top would work round till the sails faced the wind.”“Well, the whole top will work round now, David.”“Not it, sir, without the sails.”“But I tell you it will,” said Tom, moving a bar, and throwing open the long shutter, which fell back easily, letting in a long strip of sunshine, and giving a view of the blue sky from low-down toward the horizon to the zenith.“Well, you do get plenty of ventilation,” said David oracularly. “Nothing like plenty of air for plants, and it’s good for humans too. Make you grow strong and stocky, Master Tom. But the top used to turn all round in the old days.”“So it does now, so that uncle can direct his telescope any way. Look here!”The boy moved to the side, and took hold of an endless rope, run round a wheel fixed to the side, pulled at the rope, and the wheel began to revolve, turning with it a small cogged barrel, which acted in turn upon the row of cogs belonging to the bottom of the woodwork dome, which began to move steadily round.“Well, that caps me,” said David. “I thought it was a fixter now.”“And you thought wrong, Davy,” said Tom, going up two or three steps, and passing out through the open shutter, and lowering himself into the little gallery that had once communicated with the fan, and here he stood looking out.“All right there, Master Tom?”“Yes.”“May I move the thing?”“If you like.”David, as eagerly as a child with a new toy, began to pull at the rope, when the top began to revolve, taking the little gallery with it, and giving Tom a ride pretty well round the place before the gardener stopped, and turned his face through the opening left by the shutter.“Goes splendid!” he said, as Tom came in and closed the shutter. “I wouldn’t ha’ believed it. And so the master’s going to build a big tallow scoop up there, is he?”“Yes; and we’ve got a good deal of it done. There, let’s get down. Uncle may want me.”“Ay, and I must get back to my garden, sir. There’s a deal to do there, and I could manage with a lot of help.”“Uncle was talking of making this place quite a study, and putting a lot of books here, the other day,” said Tom, as they descended to the laboratory.“Was he now? Rare windy place, though, sir, isn’t it? Windy milly place, eh?”“Well, you said air was good,” said Tom, laughing; and they went down into the workshop. “Mustn’t have that window left open though,” said Tom; and, going to the side, he reached over the bench with the blanket spread over it, drew in the iron-framed lattice window, and fastened it, and was drawing back, when the blanket, which had been hanging draped over a good deal at one end, yielded to that end’s weight, and glided off, to fall in a heap upon the stones.Tom stooped quickly to pick it up, but as his head was descending below the level of the great bench-table, he stopped short, staring at its bare level surface, rose up, turned, and looked sharply at the gardener, and then in quite an excited way stepped to where the upturned cask stood covered with its blanket, and raised it as if expecting to find something there.But the glass disc his uncle spoke of as a tool lay there only; and with a horrible feeling of dread beginning to oppress him, Tom turned back to the heap of blanket lying upon the floor, stooped over it, but feared to remove it—to lift it up from the worn flagstones.“Anything the matter, sir?” said David, looking at him curiously from the door.“Matter? Yes!” cried Tom, who was beginning to feel a peculiar tremor. “David, you—you opened that window.”“Nay, sir, I never touched it,” said the gardener stoutly.“Yes; while I was gone for the saw and wedges.”“Nay, sir, I come down and just looked about, that’s all; I never touched the window.”“But—but there was the beautiful, carefully-ground speculum there on that bench, just as uncle and I had finished it. We left it covered over last night—with the blanket—and—and—” he added in a tone of despair, “it isn’t there now.”“Well, I never touched it, sir,” said the gardener; “you may search my pockets if you like.”Tom could not see the absurdity of the man’s suggestion, and in his agony of mind, feeling as he did what must have happened if any one had dragged at the blanket, he stooped down once more to gather it up, but paused with his hand an inch or two away from the highest fold, not daring to touch it.“It’s broken,” he moaned to himself; “I know it is!” and the cold perspiration stood out upon his forehead.“I shouldn’t ha’ persoomed to touch none o’ master’s contrapshums, sir,” broke in the gardener, rather sharply, “so don’t you go and tell him as I did. I know how partickler he always is.”“Broken—broken!” murmured Tom. “The poor speculum—and after all that work.”Then slowly taking the fold of the blanket in his hand he raised it up, and drew it on one side, faintly hoping that he might be wrong, but hoping against hope, for the next moment he had unveiled it where it lay, to see his worst fears confirmed—the beautiful limpid-looking object lay upon the flag at the end, broken in three pieces, one of which reflected the boy’s agitated face.
“Now, uncle, what’s the next thing to be done?” said Tom at breakfast that morning.
“I think we may begin the body of the telescope now, Tom,” said his uncle.
“The body?”
“Yes; the speculum is what we might call the life of the whole instrument, and the rest will be simplicity itself. We’ve got to bring a little mechanical work to bear, and the thing is done.”
“But it will want a lot of glasses fixed about in a big tube, won’t it?”
“No; nothing but the flat and eye-pieces, and I have the lenses to make these. By the way, I have some letters to write, and shall be busy all the morning. Your uncle seems to be still unwell, and I must write to him, for one thing. I tell you what I want done. We have no place there for keeping papers or drawings in, and where one can sit down and write at times, and lock up afterwards. I’ve been thinking that I’ll have the big old bureau desk with its drawers taken out of the study, and carried up into the laboratory. It can stand beneath the shelves on the right of the east window; and you might take up a chair or two, and a piece of old carpet as well. Get David to help you.”
“All right, uncle.”
So when breakfast was over, Tom went out and found David, who was sticking stakes along the outside of the asparagus bed, and tying tarred twine from one to the other, so as to keep the plume-like stems from blowing about and breaking.
“Mornin’, Master Tom,” he said. “I say, my Maria Louisas are swelling out fast. We shall soon have to be on the look-out for pear-ketchers.”
“All right, David, I’ll help you. I hope it is Pete Warboys. I should like to give him stick.”
“We’ll give him stake instead, Master Tom.”
“Never mind that now. I want you to help me move that chest of drawers and desk out of uncle’s study to the laboratory.”
“Very good, sir; but you might call a spade a spade.”
“What do you mean?” said Tom, staring.
“Labor hatory, sir! why don’t you say windmill?”
“Because it has been made into an observatory, laboratory, and workshop all in one,” said Tom, rather stiffly.
“Just as you like, Master Tom; but you may take the sails off, and the fan, and put all the rattle-traps in it you like, but it can’t make it anything but what it was born to be, and that was a windmill.”
“Well, we won’t argue,” said Tom. “Come along.”
He led the way to the study, where Uncle Richard was seated at a table writing, and it being a particularly dry day, David spent about five minutes wiping nothing off his shoes on every mat he passed, to Tom’s great amusement. Then after making a bow and a scrape to his master which were not seen, he gave his nose a rub with his cuff, and went back to put his hat outside the door.
“Come along, David,” said Tom. “This is it.”
The gardener went on tiptoe to the end of the old escritoire, stooped, lifted it, and shook his head.
“You can’t manage one end o’ that, Master Tom,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“No, too weighty,” said his master; and without looking round he passed his keys. “Take out the drawers, they’re heavy, and carry them separately.”
This plan was followed out, each taking a drawer and carrying it out through the garden, and across the lane to the yard gate, which Tom unlocked after resting his drawer on the wall; leaving it there while he ran up and unlocked the tower door, then going back for the load he had left.
These two drawers were carried into the stone-floored workshop, where the bench under the window was covered with an old blanket, another doing duty as cover for the glass tool which had been replaced on the head of the cask.
“My word! what a differ there is here,” said David, as he glanced round with the drawer in his hands. “What yer put to bed under they blankets, sir?”
“Specula, David.”
“Speckle-hay? What, are you forcing on ’em?”
“Forcing?” said Tom, laughing.
“Yes; are they coming up?”
“Nonsense! Here are those two great pieces of glass uncle brought down. We’ve been polishing one.”
“Oh! them,” cried David. “My word! Wonder what old miller would ha’ said to see his place ramfoozled about like this?”
“Come along,” cried Tom; and the drawers were carried up, each being crammed full of papers and books, and laid on the floor close to the old mill-post.
“Worser and worser,” said David, looking round. “Dear, dear! the times I’ve been up here when the sacks was standing all about, some flour and some wheat, and the stones spinning round, the hopper going tippenny tap—tippenny tap, and the meal-dust so thick you could hardly breathe. I ’member coming out one night, and going home, and my missus says to me, ‘Why, Davy, old man, what yer been a-doing on? Yer head’s all powdered up like Squire Winkum’s footman.’ It was only meal, yer know.”
“And now you can come and go without getting white, David,” said Tom, moving a stool from under the newly put up shelves. “This is where the bureau is to go.”
“Is it now?” said David, scratching his head. “Why that’s where the old bin used to be. Ay, I’ve set on that bin many’s the time on a windy night, when miller wanted to get a lot o’ grist done.”
“Back again,” said Tom; and two more drawers were carried over. Then the framework and desk were fetched, with Mrs Fidler standing ready, dustpan and brush in hand, to remove any dirt and fluff that might be underneath.
“Tidy heavy now, Master Tom,” said David, as they bore the old walnut-wood piece of furniture across the garden and up to the mill, only setting it down once just inside the yard by way of a rest, and to close the gate.
Then the piece of furniture was carried in, and after some little scheming, hoisted up the steep ladder flight of steps, David getting under it and forcing it up with his head.
“Wonderful heavy bit o’ wood, Master Tom,” said the gardener.
“It’s an awkward place to get it up, David,” replied the boy. “Now then, just under those shelves. It will stand capitally there, and get plenty of light for writing.”
But the bureau did not stand capitally there, for the back feet were higher than the front, consequent upon the floor having sunk from the weight of millstones in the middle.
“She’ll want a couple o’ wedges under her, Master Tom,” said David.
“Yes. I’ve got a couple of pieces that will just do—part of a little box,” cried Tom. “I’ll fetch them, and the saw to cut the exact size. You wait here.”
“And put the drawers in, sir?”
“Not till we’ve got this right,” replied Tom, who was already at the head of the steps; and he ran down and across to the house, obtained the saw from the tool-chest, and hurried back to the mill, where he found David down in the workshop, waiting for him with his hands in his pockets.
“Didn’t yer uncle ought to leave his tool-chest over here, sir?” said the gardener.
“Oh yes, I suppose he will,” said Tom. “It would be handier. Halloo, did you open that window?”
“No, sir. I see it ajar like when we first came, and it just blowed open like when the door was swung back.”
Tom said no more, but led the way up-stairs, where the pieces of wood were wedged in under the front legs, sawn off square, and the drawers were replaced.
“Capital, Master Tom,” cried the gardener. “You’d make quite a carpenter. I say, what’s it like up-stairs?”
“Come and see,” said Tom, ready to idle a little now the work was done, and very proud of the place he had helped to contrive.
David tightened his blue serge apron roll about his waist, and followed up into the observatory, smiling, but ready to depreciate everything.
“Ay, but it’s a big change,” he said; “no sacks o’ wheat, no reg’lar machinery. There’s the master’s tallow scoop; he give me a look through it once, and there was the moon all covered with spots o’ grease like you see on soup sometimes. Well, it’s his’n, and he’s a right to do what he likes with the place. Ah, many’s the time I’ve been up here too. Why, Jose the carpenter chap’s cut away the top of the post here. You used to be able to move a bit of an iron contrapshum, and that would send the fan spinning, and the whole top would work round till the sails faced the wind.”
“Well, the whole top will work round now, David.”
“Not it, sir, without the sails.”
“But I tell you it will,” said Tom, moving a bar, and throwing open the long shutter, which fell back easily, letting in a long strip of sunshine, and giving a view of the blue sky from low-down toward the horizon to the zenith.
“Well, you do get plenty of ventilation,” said David oracularly. “Nothing like plenty of air for plants, and it’s good for humans too. Make you grow strong and stocky, Master Tom. But the top used to turn all round in the old days.”
“So it does now, so that uncle can direct his telescope any way. Look here!”
The boy moved to the side, and took hold of an endless rope, run round a wheel fixed to the side, pulled at the rope, and the wheel began to revolve, turning with it a small cogged barrel, which acted in turn upon the row of cogs belonging to the bottom of the woodwork dome, which began to move steadily round.
“Well, that caps me,” said David. “I thought it was a fixter now.”
“And you thought wrong, Davy,” said Tom, going up two or three steps, and passing out through the open shutter, and lowering himself into the little gallery that had once communicated with the fan, and here he stood looking out.
“All right there, Master Tom?”
“Yes.”
“May I move the thing?”
“If you like.”
David, as eagerly as a child with a new toy, began to pull at the rope, when the top began to revolve, taking the little gallery with it, and giving Tom a ride pretty well round the place before the gardener stopped, and turned his face through the opening left by the shutter.
“Goes splendid!” he said, as Tom came in and closed the shutter. “I wouldn’t ha’ believed it. And so the master’s going to build a big tallow scoop up there, is he?”
“Yes; and we’ve got a good deal of it done. There, let’s get down. Uncle may want me.”
“Ay, and I must get back to my garden, sir. There’s a deal to do there, and I could manage with a lot of help.”
“Uncle was talking of making this place quite a study, and putting a lot of books here, the other day,” said Tom, as they descended to the laboratory.
“Was he now? Rare windy place, though, sir, isn’t it? Windy milly place, eh?”
“Well, you said air was good,” said Tom, laughing; and they went down into the workshop. “Mustn’t have that window left open though,” said Tom; and, going to the side, he reached over the bench with the blanket spread over it, drew in the iron-framed lattice window, and fastened it, and was drawing back, when the blanket, which had been hanging draped over a good deal at one end, yielded to that end’s weight, and glided off, to fall in a heap upon the stones.
Tom stooped quickly to pick it up, but as his head was descending below the level of the great bench-table, he stopped short, staring at its bare level surface, rose up, turned, and looked sharply at the gardener, and then in quite an excited way stepped to where the upturned cask stood covered with its blanket, and raised it as if expecting to find something there.
But the glass disc his uncle spoke of as a tool lay there only; and with a horrible feeling of dread beginning to oppress him, Tom turned back to the heap of blanket lying upon the floor, stooped over it, but feared to remove it—to lift it up from the worn flagstones.
“Anything the matter, sir?” said David, looking at him curiously from the door.
“Matter? Yes!” cried Tom, who was beginning to feel a peculiar tremor. “David, you—you opened that window.”
“Nay, sir, I never touched it,” said the gardener stoutly.
“Yes; while I was gone for the saw and wedges.”
“Nay, sir, I come down and just looked about, that’s all; I never touched the window.”
“But—but there was the beautiful, carefully-ground speculum there on that bench, just as uncle and I had finished it. We left it covered over last night—with the blanket—and—and—” he added in a tone of despair, “it isn’t there now.”
“Well, I never touched it, sir,” said the gardener; “you may search my pockets if you like.”
Tom could not see the absurdity of the man’s suggestion, and in his agony of mind, feeling as he did what must have happened if any one had dragged at the blanket, he stooped down once more to gather it up, but paused with his hand an inch or two away from the highest fold, not daring to touch it.
“It’s broken,” he moaned to himself; “I know it is!” and the cold perspiration stood out upon his forehead.
“I shouldn’t ha’ persoomed to touch none o’ master’s contrapshums, sir,” broke in the gardener, rather sharply, “so don’t you go and tell him as I did. I know how partickler he always is.”
“Broken—broken!” murmured Tom. “The poor speculum—and after all that work.”
Then slowly taking the fold of the blanket in his hand he raised it up, and drew it on one side, faintly hoping that he might be wrong, but hoping against hope, for the next moment he had unveiled it where it lay, to see his worst fears confirmed—the beautiful limpid-looking object lay upon the flag at the end, broken in three pieces, one of which reflected the boy’s agitated face.