Chapter Twenty One.“How long’s he going to stop, Master Tom?” said David the next morning about breakfast-time, for he had come, according to custom, to see if cook wanted anything else on account of the company.He had stumbled upon Tom, who was strolling about the grounds, waiting for his cousin to come down to the meal waiting ready, his uncle sitting reading by the window.“He’s going back to-morrow, David.”“And a jolly good job too, sir, I says,” cried David, “whether you like it or whether you don’t.”Tom looked at him wonderingly.“Yes, sir, you may stare, but I speaks out. I like you, Master Tom, and allus have, since I see you was a young gent as had a respect for our fruit. Of course I grows it for you to heat, but it ain’t Christian-like for people to come in my garden and ravage the things away, destroying and spoiling what ain’t ripe. I know, and your uncle knows, when things ought to be eaten, and then it’s a pleasure to see an apricot picked gentle like, so as it falls in your hand ready to be laid in a basket o’ leaves proper to go into the house. You can take ’em then; it makes you smile and feel a kind o’ pleasure in ’em, because they’re ripe. But I’d sooner grow none than see ’em tore off when they’re good for nowt. I didn’t see ’em go, Master Tom, but four o’ my chyce Maria Louisas has been picked, and I wouldn’t insult you, sir, by even thinking it was you. It wasn’t Pete Warboys, because he ain’t left his trail. Who was it, then, if it wasn’t your fine noo cousin?”Tom said nothing, but thought of the hard green pears Sam had thrown at Pete Warboys.“Just you look here, Master Tom,” continued the gardener, leading the way to the wall. “There’s where one was tore off, and a big bit o’ shoot as took two year to grow, fine fruit-bearing wood, but he off with it. Yes, there it is,” he cried, pouncing upon a newly-broken-off twig, “just as I expected. There’s where the pear was broke off arterward, leaving all the stalk on. Why, when that pear had been fit to pick, sir, it would have come off at that little jynt as soon as you put your hand under it and lifted it up. Why, I’ve know’d them pears, sir, as good as say thankye as soon as they felt your hand under ’em, for they’d growed too ripe and heavy to hang any longer. Dear, dear, dear, who’d be a gardener?”“You would, David,” said Tom, smiling. “Never mind; it’s very tiresome, and he ought to have known better, if it was my cousin.”“Knowed better, sir? Why, you’d ha’ thought a fine chap like he, dressed up to the nines with his shiny boots and hat, and smoking his ’bacco wrapped up in paper, instead of a dirty pipe, would ha’ been eddicated up to everything. There, sir, it’s Sunday mornin’, and I’m goin’ to church by-and-by, so I won’t let my angry passions rise; but if that young gent’s coming here much, I shall tell master as it’s all over with the garden, for I sha’n’t take no pride in it no more.”“And that isn’t the worst of it,” thought Tom; “throwing those pears at Pete was telling him that we had plenty here on the walls, and tempting him to come.”That day passed in a wearisome way to Tom. At church Sam swaggered in, and took his place after a haughty glance round, as if he were favouring the congregation by his condescension in coming. Then on leaving, when Mr Maxted bustled up to ask after Uncle Richard, fearing that he was absent from illness, till he heard that it was on account of his invalid brother, Sam began to show plenty of assumption and contempt for the little rustic church.“Why don’t you have an organ?” he said.“For two reasons, my dear young friend,” said Mr Maxted. “One is that we could not afford to buy one; the other that we have no one here who could play it if we had. We get on very well without.”“But it sounds so comic for the clerk to gotooton that whistling thing, and then for people with such bad voices to do the singing, instead of a regular choir, the same as we have in town.”“Dear me!” said Mr Maxted dryly, “it never sounds comic to my ears, for there is so much sincerity in the simple act of praise. But we are homely country people down here, and very rustic no doubt to you.”“Confounded young prig!” said Mr Maxted, as he walked back to the Vicarage. “I felt as if I could kick him. Nice sentiments these for a clergyman on a Sunday,” he added. “But he did make me feel so cross.”“What does he mean by calling me my dear young friend?” cried Sam, as soon as the Vicar was out of sight. “Nice time you must have of it down here, young fellow. But it serves you right for being so cocky and obstinate when you had such chances along with us.”Tom was silent, but felt as if he could have said a great deal, and had the satisfaction of feeling that the gap between him and his cousin was growing wider and wider.“I suppose he is a far superior fellow to what I am,” the boy said to himself; “and perhaps it’s my vanity, but I don’t want to change.”It was the dreariest Sunday he had ever passed, but he rose the next morning in the highest spirits, for Sam’s father had told him to get off back to town directly after breakfast.“If Uncle James would only get better and go too,” he said to himself as he dressed, “how much pleasanter it would be!”But Uncle James came down to breakfast moaning at every step, and murmuring at having to leave his bed so soon. For he had been compelled to rise on account of two or three business matters with which he wished to charge his son; and he told every one in turn that he was very much worse, and that he was sure Furzebrough did not agree with him; but he ate, as Tom observed, a very hearty breakfast all the same.David had had his own, and had started off at six o’clock to fetch the fly, which arrived in good time, to take Sam off to meet the fast up-train, Tom thinking to himself that it would not have been much hardship to walk across the fields on such a glorious morning.“Going to see your cousin off?” said Uncle Richard, just as breakfast was over. “You wouldn’t mind the walk back, Tom?”“Oh no, uncle,” said the boy, who felt startled that such a remark should be made when he was thinking about the walk.But Tom was not destined to go across to the station, for Uncle James interposed.“No, no, don’t send him away,” he said. “I have not had an airing in my bath-chair for two days, and I fancy that is why I feel so exhausted this morning.”“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Sam; “and besides,” he added importantly, “I shall be thinking of business all the time.”“At last,” said Tom to himself, as his cousin stepped leisurely into the fly and lit a cigarette.“On’y just time to ketch that there train, sir,” said the driver, who, feeling no fear of his bony horse starting, was down out of his seat to hold open the fly-door.“Then drive faster,” said Sam coolly.“Wish he’d show me how,” muttered the driver, as he closed the door and began to mount to his seat, scowling at his slow-going horse.“Good-bye, clodhopper,” said Sam, toying with his cigarette, as he threw himself back in the fly without offering his hand.“Good-bye, Sam,” replied Tom. “All right, driver;” and the wheels began to revolve.“He thinks Uncle Richard ’ll leave him all his money,” muttered Sam, as they passed out of the swing-gate. “All that nice place too, and the old windmill; but he don’t have it if I can do anything.”“There’s something wrong about me, I suppose,” said Tom to himself, as he turned down the garden, and then out into the lane, where he could look right away over the wild common-land, and inhale the fresh warm breeze. “Poor old chap though, I’m sorry for him!” he muttered. “Fancy having to go back to London on a day like this.”Then from the bubbling up of his spirits consequent upon that feeling of release as from a burden which had come over him, Tom set off running—at first gently, then as hard as he could go, till at a turn of the lane he caught sight of Pete Warboys prowling along with his dog a couple of hundred yards away.The dog caught sight of Tom running hard, uttered a yelp, tucked its tail between its legs, and began to run. Then Pete turned to see what had startled the dog, caught sight of Tom racing along, and, a guilty conscience needing no accuser, took it for granted that he was being chased; so away he ran, big stick in hand, his long arms flying, and his loose-jointed legs shambling over the ground at a pace which kept him well ahead.This pleased Tom; there was something exhilarating in hunting his enemy, and besides, it was pleasant to feel that he was inspiring dread.“Wonder what he has been doing,” said the boy, laughing to himself, as Pete struck off at right angles through the wood and disappeared, leaving his pursuer breathless in the lane. “Well, I sha’n’t run after him.—Hah! that has done me good.”Tom had another good look round where the lane curved away now, and ran downhill past the big sand-pit at the dip; and then on away down to where the little river gurgled along, sending flashes of sunshine in all directions, while the country rose on the other side in a beautiful slope of furzy common, hanging wood, and closely-cut coppice, pretty well filled with game.“Better get back,” thought Tom; and then he uttered a low whistle, and broke into a trot, with a new burden on his back in the shape of the bath-chair, for he had suddenly recollected Uncle James’s complaint about not having been out for a ride.Sure enough when he reached the garden David met him.“Master’s been a-shouting for you, sir. Yes, there he goes again.”“Coming, uncle,” cried Tom; and he ran into the house, and encountered Uncle Richard.“Oh, here you are at last. Get out the bath-chair quickly, my boy. Your uncle has been complaining bitterly. Little things make him fret, and he had set his mind upon a ride.”“All right, uncle—round directly,” cried Tom, running off to the coach-house. “Phew! how hot I’ve made myself.”In two minutes he was running the chair round to the front door, and as he passed the study window a doleful moaning greeted his ear; but it ceased upon the wheels being heard.“All right, uncle, here it is,” cried Tom; and James Brandon came out resting upon a stick, and moaning piteously, while his brother came behind bearing a great plaid shawl.“Here, take my arm, Jem,” he said.“I can walk by myself,” was the pettish reply. “Then you’ve come back, sir. Tired of your job, I suppose. Oh dear! oh dear!”“I really forgot it for a bit, uncle,” said Tom humbly.“Forgot! Yes, you boys do nothing else but forget. Ah! Oh! Oh! I’m a broken man,” he groaned, as he sank back in the chair and took hold of the handle.“I’ll pull you, uncle,” said Tom, looking at him wonderingly.“You pull it so awkwardly.—Oh dear me! how short my breath is!—And you get in the way so when I want to see the country. Go behind.”“All right, uncle. Which way would you like to go? Through the village?”“What! down there by the churchyard? Ugh! No; go along that upper lane which leads by the fir-wood and the sand-pits. The air is fit to breathe there.”“Yes, glorious,” said Uncle Richard cheerily. “Off you go, donkey, and bring your uncle back with a good appetite for dinner.”“All right, uncle. Now, Uncle James, hold tight.”“Be careful, sir, be careful,” cried the invalid; and he kept up his regular moaning as Tom pushed the chair out into the lane, and then round past the mill, and on toward the woods.“How much did your uncle spend over workpeople for that whim of his?” said the invalid, suddenly leaving off moaning and looking round.“Oh, I don’t know, uncle; a good deal, I believe.”“Yes, yes; oh dear me! A good deal, no doubt. Keep out of the sand; it jolts me.”“There’s such a lot of sand along here, uncle; the carts cut the road up so, coming from the pits.”“Yes; horrible roads. There—oh—oh—oh! Go steady.”“All right, uncle,” said Tom; and he pushed on steadily enough right along the lane where he had chased Pete Warboys not so long before. Then the fir-wood was reached, and at last the road rose till it was no longer down between two high sand-banks crowned with furze and pine, but opened out as they reached the top of the slope which ran down past the sand-pit to the river with its shallow ford.“Which are your uncle’s woods?” said Uncle James suddenly.“Right away back. You can see them when you lean forward. Stop a moment; let’s get close to the edge. That’s better,” he said, as he paused just at the top of the slope. “Now lean forward, and look away to the left a little way from the church tower. That’s one of them. I’m not sure about the others, for Uncle Richard does not talk about them much.”Whizz! Rustle.“What’s that?” said Uncle James, ceasing his tiresome moaning.“Don’t know, uncle. Rabbit, I think.”Rap!“Yes, it was a rabbit. They strike the ground with their feet when they are startled.”“Ah! Then that’s his wood is it?” said James Brandon, leaning forward. “A nice bit of property.”Crack!“What’s that, boy?”“Somebody’s throwing stones,” cried Tom excitedly, turning to look round, but there was nothing visible, though the boy felt sure that the thrower must be Pete Warboys hidden somewhere among the trees. Then he felt sure of it, for, glancing toward the clumps of furze in the more open part, another well-aimed stone came and struck the road between the wheels of the bath-chair.“Is that some one throwing at me?” cried Uncle James angrily.“No, uncle,” said Tom, as he leaned upon the handle at the back of the chair; “I expect they’re meant for me—I’m sure of it now,” he added, for there was a slight rap upon his elbow, making him wince as he turned sharply.“The scoundrel! Whoever it is I’ll have a policeman to him.”“Yes; there: it is Pete Warboys,” cried Tom excitedly. “I saw him dodge out from behind one of the trees to throw. Oh, I say, did that hit you, uncle?”“No, boy, only brushed the cushion. The dog! The scoundrel! He—Stop, don’t go and leave me here.”Tom did not, for, acting on the impulse of the moment, as he saw Pete run out to hurl another stone, he wrenched himself round, unconsciously giving the chair a start, and ran off into the wood in chase of the insolent young poacher, who turned and fled.No: Tom Blount did not leave his uncle there, for the chair began to run gently on upon its light wire wheels, then faster and faster, down the long hill slope, always gathering speed, till at last it was in full career, with the invalid sitting bolt upright, thoroughly unnerved, and trying with trembling hands to guide its front wheel so as to keep it in the centre of the road. Farther back the land had been soft, and to Tom’s cost as motive power; but more on the hill slope the soft sand had been washed away by many rains, and left the road hard, so that the three-wheeled chair ran with increasing speed, jolting, bounding, and at times seeming as if it must turn over. There, straight before the rider, was the spot below where the road forked, the main going on to the ford, that to the left, deep in sand, diving down into the large sand-pit, which had been dug at from time beyond the oldest traditions of the village. A kind of ridge had here been kept up, to form the roadway right down into the bottom—a cruel place for horses dragging cartloads of the heavy material—and from this ridge on either side there was a stiff slope down to where the level of the huge pit spread, quite a couple of hundred feet below the roadway straight onward to the ford.And moment by moment Uncle James Brandon sped onward toward the fork, holding the cross handle of the bath-chair with both hands, and steering it first in one direction then in the other, as he hesitated as to which would be the safer. If he went to the right, there, crossing the road at right angles, was the little river, which might be shallow but looked deep; and at any rate meant, if not drowning, wetting. If he went to the left from where he raced on, it looked as if he would have to plunge down at headlong speed into what seemed to be an awful chasm.But the time for consideration was very short, though thoughts fly like flashes. One way or the other, and he must decide instantly, for there was just before him the point where the road divided—a hundred yards away—fifty yards—twenty yards, and the wind rushing by his ears as the bath-chair bounded on.Which was it to be?
“How long’s he going to stop, Master Tom?” said David the next morning about breakfast-time, for he had come, according to custom, to see if cook wanted anything else on account of the company.
He had stumbled upon Tom, who was strolling about the grounds, waiting for his cousin to come down to the meal waiting ready, his uncle sitting reading by the window.
“He’s going back to-morrow, David.”
“And a jolly good job too, sir, I says,” cried David, “whether you like it or whether you don’t.”
Tom looked at him wonderingly.
“Yes, sir, you may stare, but I speaks out. I like you, Master Tom, and allus have, since I see you was a young gent as had a respect for our fruit. Of course I grows it for you to heat, but it ain’t Christian-like for people to come in my garden and ravage the things away, destroying and spoiling what ain’t ripe. I know, and your uncle knows, when things ought to be eaten, and then it’s a pleasure to see an apricot picked gentle like, so as it falls in your hand ready to be laid in a basket o’ leaves proper to go into the house. You can take ’em then; it makes you smile and feel a kind o’ pleasure in ’em, because they’re ripe. But I’d sooner grow none than see ’em tore off when they’re good for nowt. I didn’t see ’em go, Master Tom, but four o’ my chyce Maria Louisas has been picked, and I wouldn’t insult you, sir, by even thinking it was you. It wasn’t Pete Warboys, because he ain’t left his trail. Who was it, then, if it wasn’t your fine noo cousin?”
Tom said nothing, but thought of the hard green pears Sam had thrown at Pete Warboys.
“Just you look here, Master Tom,” continued the gardener, leading the way to the wall. “There’s where one was tore off, and a big bit o’ shoot as took two year to grow, fine fruit-bearing wood, but he off with it. Yes, there it is,” he cried, pouncing upon a newly-broken-off twig, “just as I expected. There’s where the pear was broke off arterward, leaving all the stalk on. Why, when that pear had been fit to pick, sir, it would have come off at that little jynt as soon as you put your hand under it and lifted it up. Why, I’ve know’d them pears, sir, as good as say thankye as soon as they felt your hand under ’em, for they’d growed too ripe and heavy to hang any longer. Dear, dear, dear, who’d be a gardener?”
“You would, David,” said Tom, smiling. “Never mind; it’s very tiresome, and he ought to have known better, if it was my cousin.”
“Knowed better, sir? Why, you’d ha’ thought a fine chap like he, dressed up to the nines with his shiny boots and hat, and smoking his ’bacco wrapped up in paper, instead of a dirty pipe, would ha’ been eddicated up to everything. There, sir, it’s Sunday mornin’, and I’m goin’ to church by-and-by, so I won’t let my angry passions rise; but if that young gent’s coming here much, I shall tell master as it’s all over with the garden, for I sha’n’t take no pride in it no more.”
“And that isn’t the worst of it,” thought Tom; “throwing those pears at Pete was telling him that we had plenty here on the walls, and tempting him to come.”
That day passed in a wearisome way to Tom. At church Sam swaggered in, and took his place after a haughty glance round, as if he were favouring the congregation by his condescension in coming. Then on leaving, when Mr Maxted bustled up to ask after Uncle Richard, fearing that he was absent from illness, till he heard that it was on account of his invalid brother, Sam began to show plenty of assumption and contempt for the little rustic church.
“Why don’t you have an organ?” he said.
“For two reasons, my dear young friend,” said Mr Maxted. “One is that we could not afford to buy one; the other that we have no one here who could play it if we had. We get on very well without.”
“But it sounds so comic for the clerk to gotooton that whistling thing, and then for people with such bad voices to do the singing, instead of a regular choir, the same as we have in town.”
“Dear me!” said Mr Maxted dryly, “it never sounds comic to my ears, for there is so much sincerity in the simple act of praise. But we are homely country people down here, and very rustic no doubt to you.”
“Confounded young prig!” said Mr Maxted, as he walked back to the Vicarage. “I felt as if I could kick him. Nice sentiments these for a clergyman on a Sunday,” he added. “But he did make me feel so cross.”
“What does he mean by calling me my dear young friend?” cried Sam, as soon as the Vicar was out of sight. “Nice time you must have of it down here, young fellow. But it serves you right for being so cocky and obstinate when you had such chances along with us.”
Tom was silent, but felt as if he could have said a great deal, and had the satisfaction of feeling that the gap between him and his cousin was growing wider and wider.
“I suppose he is a far superior fellow to what I am,” the boy said to himself; “and perhaps it’s my vanity, but I don’t want to change.”
It was the dreariest Sunday he had ever passed, but he rose the next morning in the highest spirits, for Sam’s father had told him to get off back to town directly after breakfast.
“If Uncle James would only get better and go too,” he said to himself as he dressed, “how much pleasanter it would be!”
But Uncle James came down to breakfast moaning at every step, and murmuring at having to leave his bed so soon. For he had been compelled to rise on account of two or three business matters with which he wished to charge his son; and he told every one in turn that he was very much worse, and that he was sure Furzebrough did not agree with him; but he ate, as Tom observed, a very hearty breakfast all the same.
David had had his own, and had started off at six o’clock to fetch the fly, which arrived in good time, to take Sam off to meet the fast up-train, Tom thinking to himself that it would not have been much hardship to walk across the fields on such a glorious morning.
“Going to see your cousin off?” said Uncle Richard, just as breakfast was over. “You wouldn’t mind the walk back, Tom?”
“Oh no, uncle,” said the boy, who felt startled that such a remark should be made when he was thinking about the walk.
But Tom was not destined to go across to the station, for Uncle James interposed.
“No, no, don’t send him away,” he said. “I have not had an airing in my bath-chair for two days, and I fancy that is why I feel so exhausted this morning.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Sam; “and besides,” he added importantly, “I shall be thinking of business all the time.”
“At last,” said Tom to himself, as his cousin stepped leisurely into the fly and lit a cigarette.
“On’y just time to ketch that there train, sir,” said the driver, who, feeling no fear of his bony horse starting, was down out of his seat to hold open the fly-door.
“Then drive faster,” said Sam coolly.
“Wish he’d show me how,” muttered the driver, as he closed the door and began to mount to his seat, scowling at his slow-going horse.
“Good-bye, clodhopper,” said Sam, toying with his cigarette, as he threw himself back in the fly without offering his hand.
“Good-bye, Sam,” replied Tom. “All right, driver;” and the wheels began to revolve.
“He thinks Uncle Richard ’ll leave him all his money,” muttered Sam, as they passed out of the swing-gate. “All that nice place too, and the old windmill; but he don’t have it if I can do anything.”
“There’s something wrong about me, I suppose,” said Tom to himself, as he turned down the garden, and then out into the lane, where he could look right away over the wild common-land, and inhale the fresh warm breeze. “Poor old chap though, I’m sorry for him!” he muttered. “Fancy having to go back to London on a day like this.”
Then from the bubbling up of his spirits consequent upon that feeling of release as from a burden which had come over him, Tom set off running—at first gently, then as hard as he could go, till at a turn of the lane he caught sight of Pete Warboys prowling along with his dog a couple of hundred yards away.
The dog caught sight of Tom running hard, uttered a yelp, tucked its tail between its legs, and began to run. Then Pete turned to see what had startled the dog, caught sight of Tom racing along, and, a guilty conscience needing no accuser, took it for granted that he was being chased; so away he ran, big stick in hand, his long arms flying, and his loose-jointed legs shambling over the ground at a pace which kept him well ahead.
This pleased Tom; there was something exhilarating in hunting his enemy, and besides, it was pleasant to feel that he was inspiring dread.
“Wonder what he has been doing,” said the boy, laughing to himself, as Pete struck off at right angles through the wood and disappeared, leaving his pursuer breathless in the lane. “Well, I sha’n’t run after him.—Hah! that has done me good.”
Tom had another good look round where the lane curved away now, and ran downhill past the big sand-pit at the dip; and then on away down to where the little river gurgled along, sending flashes of sunshine in all directions, while the country rose on the other side in a beautiful slope of furzy common, hanging wood, and closely-cut coppice, pretty well filled with game.
“Better get back,” thought Tom; and then he uttered a low whistle, and broke into a trot, with a new burden on his back in the shape of the bath-chair, for he had suddenly recollected Uncle James’s complaint about not having been out for a ride.
Sure enough when he reached the garden David met him.
“Master’s been a-shouting for you, sir. Yes, there he goes again.”
“Coming, uncle,” cried Tom; and he ran into the house, and encountered Uncle Richard.
“Oh, here you are at last. Get out the bath-chair quickly, my boy. Your uncle has been complaining bitterly. Little things make him fret, and he had set his mind upon a ride.”
“All right, uncle—round directly,” cried Tom, running off to the coach-house. “Phew! how hot I’ve made myself.”
In two minutes he was running the chair round to the front door, and as he passed the study window a doleful moaning greeted his ear; but it ceased upon the wheels being heard.
“All right, uncle, here it is,” cried Tom; and James Brandon came out resting upon a stick, and moaning piteously, while his brother came behind bearing a great plaid shawl.
“Here, take my arm, Jem,” he said.
“I can walk by myself,” was the pettish reply. “Then you’ve come back, sir. Tired of your job, I suppose. Oh dear! oh dear!”
“I really forgot it for a bit, uncle,” said Tom humbly.
“Forgot! Yes, you boys do nothing else but forget. Ah! Oh! Oh! I’m a broken man,” he groaned, as he sank back in the chair and took hold of the handle.
“I’ll pull you, uncle,” said Tom, looking at him wonderingly.
“You pull it so awkwardly.—Oh dear me! how short my breath is!—And you get in the way so when I want to see the country. Go behind.”
“All right, uncle. Which way would you like to go? Through the village?”
“What! down there by the churchyard? Ugh! No; go along that upper lane which leads by the fir-wood and the sand-pits. The air is fit to breathe there.”
“Yes, glorious,” said Uncle Richard cheerily. “Off you go, donkey, and bring your uncle back with a good appetite for dinner.”
“All right, uncle. Now, Uncle James, hold tight.”
“Be careful, sir, be careful,” cried the invalid; and he kept up his regular moaning as Tom pushed the chair out into the lane, and then round past the mill, and on toward the woods.
“How much did your uncle spend over workpeople for that whim of his?” said the invalid, suddenly leaving off moaning and looking round.
“Oh, I don’t know, uncle; a good deal, I believe.”
“Yes, yes; oh dear me! A good deal, no doubt. Keep out of the sand; it jolts me.”
“There’s such a lot of sand along here, uncle; the carts cut the road up so, coming from the pits.”
“Yes; horrible roads. There—oh—oh—oh! Go steady.”
“All right, uncle,” said Tom; and he pushed on steadily enough right along the lane where he had chased Pete Warboys not so long before. Then the fir-wood was reached, and at last the road rose till it was no longer down between two high sand-banks crowned with furze and pine, but opened out as they reached the top of the slope which ran down past the sand-pit to the river with its shallow ford.
“Which are your uncle’s woods?” said Uncle James suddenly.
“Right away back. You can see them when you lean forward. Stop a moment; let’s get close to the edge. That’s better,” he said, as he paused just at the top of the slope. “Now lean forward, and look away to the left a little way from the church tower. That’s one of them. I’m not sure about the others, for Uncle Richard does not talk about them much.”
Whizz! Rustle.
“What’s that?” said Uncle James, ceasing his tiresome moaning.
“Don’t know, uncle. Rabbit, I think.”
Rap!
“Yes, it was a rabbit. They strike the ground with their feet when they are startled.”
“Ah! Then that’s his wood is it?” said James Brandon, leaning forward. “A nice bit of property.”
Crack!
“What’s that, boy?”
“Somebody’s throwing stones,” cried Tom excitedly, turning to look round, but there was nothing visible, though the boy felt sure that the thrower must be Pete Warboys hidden somewhere among the trees. Then he felt sure of it, for, glancing toward the clumps of furze in the more open part, another well-aimed stone came and struck the road between the wheels of the bath-chair.
“Is that some one throwing at me?” cried Uncle James angrily.
“No, uncle,” said Tom, as he leaned upon the handle at the back of the chair; “I expect they’re meant for me—I’m sure of it now,” he added, for there was a slight rap upon his elbow, making him wince as he turned sharply.
“The scoundrel! Whoever it is I’ll have a policeman to him.”
“Yes; there: it is Pete Warboys,” cried Tom excitedly. “I saw him dodge out from behind one of the trees to throw. Oh, I say, did that hit you, uncle?”
“No, boy, only brushed the cushion. The dog! The scoundrel! He—Stop, don’t go and leave me here.”
Tom did not, for, acting on the impulse of the moment, as he saw Pete run out to hurl another stone, he wrenched himself round, unconsciously giving the chair a start, and ran off into the wood in chase of the insolent young poacher, who turned and fled.
No: Tom Blount did not leave his uncle there, for the chair began to run gently on upon its light wire wheels, then faster and faster, down the long hill slope, always gathering speed, till at last it was in full career, with the invalid sitting bolt upright, thoroughly unnerved, and trying with trembling hands to guide its front wheel so as to keep it in the centre of the road. Farther back the land had been soft, and to Tom’s cost as motive power; but more on the hill slope the soft sand had been washed away by many rains, and left the road hard, so that the three-wheeled chair ran with increasing speed, jolting, bounding, and at times seeming as if it must turn over. There, straight before the rider, was the spot below where the road forked, the main going on to the ford, that to the left, deep in sand, diving down into the large sand-pit, which had been dug at from time beyond the oldest traditions of the village. A kind of ridge had here been kept up, to form the roadway right down into the bottom—a cruel place for horses dragging cartloads of the heavy material—and from this ridge on either side there was a stiff slope down to where the level of the huge pit spread, quite a couple of hundred feet below the roadway straight onward to the ford.
And moment by moment Uncle James Brandon sped onward toward the fork, holding the cross handle of the bath-chair with both hands, and steering it first in one direction then in the other, as he hesitated as to which would be the safer. If he went to the right, there, crossing the road at right angles, was the little river, which might be shallow but looked deep; and at any rate meant, if not drowning, wetting. If he went to the left from where he raced on, it looked as if he would have to plunge down at headlong speed into what seemed to be an awful chasm.
But the time for consideration was very short, though thoughts fly like flashes. One way or the other, and he must decide instantly, for there was just before him the point where the road divided—a hundred yards away—fifty yards—twenty yards, and the wind rushing by his ears as the bath-chair bounded on.
Which was it to be?
Chapter Twenty Two.“I don’t want to fight,” thought Tom Blount, as he rushed off in pursuit of Pete Warboys, this time with full intention, and not led into it by accident. “Fighting means knocking the skin off one’s knuckles, black eyes, nose bleeding, and perhaps getting thrashed. And I may be, for he’s a big, strong, heavy fellow, and I don’t think I could hit him half hard enough to make him care. But it seems to me as if I must have a go at him. Can’t stand there and be pelted by such a fellow, it looks so cowardly. Besides, he’s a bit afraid, or he wouldn’t run away.”All this and much more thought Tom, as he ran on as fast as he could on diving into the wood when he left the road. An hour or so ago, when Pete rushed in among the trees, Tom had soon given up the chase; but he felt that it would not do to let the young scoundrel feel that he was a kind of modern bold outlaw, with a sanctuary of his own in the woods; so clenching his fists hard, Tom sped on, making up his mind to run his quarry down.“Uncle James won’t mind my leaving him, if I can go back and say I have punched Pete’s head for throwing stones at him.—Bother!”Tom gathered himself up, and stood flinching during a few moments, for he had caught his foot against a closely-sawn-off stump, and though the earth was covered with pine-needles it was hard.But the accident did not detain him many moments. There in front was Pete showing from time to time, as he dodged in and out among the tall columnar tree-trunks, now in shadow, now passing across some patch of sunshine; and Tom ran on faster than before, the pain having made him feel angry, and as if he must, to use his own words, “take it out of Pete,” he being the active cause.From time to time the great hulking lad glanced back, expecting to see that he had shaken off his pursuer, but looked in vain, for Tom was now doggedly determined. His brow was knit, his teeth set, and his clenched fists held close to his sides, and after keeping up the high rate of speed for some minutes, he now, feeling that it was going to be a long chase, settled down to a steady football or hare-and-hound trot, which combined fair pace with a likelihood of being able to stay.Pete Warboys too had been compelled to slacken somewhat in his clumsy bovine rush, and Tom observed with satisfaction, as the minutes went on, and they must have been—pursuer and pursued—toiling over the slippery fir-needles for quite a quarter of an hour, that Pete glanced over his shoulder more often than before.“He’s getting pumped out,” muttered Tom. “He’s so big that he can’t keep his wind, and he’ll stop short soon. Oh, I say, why don’t I look where I’m going!”For this time the sandy earth had suddenly given way beneath him, just in the darkest part of the wood, and he plumped right down to the bottom of a rough pit, and went on before he could stop himself right under the roots of a great fir-tree, half of which stood out bare and strange, over what looked like an enormous rabbit-hole.Tom looked wonderingly at the hole, and backed out into the pit, climbed out, and continued his chase, rather breathlessly now, for the fall had not been good for his breathing apparatus. He had lost ground too, but he soon made that up, for Pete was getting exhausted; and, what seemed strange, since Tom’s last fall he had turned off, and appeared to be running in a circle, till all at once he stopped short with his back up against a tree, panting heavily, and with the perspiration dripping from his forehead.There was a vicious look in the fellow’s countenance, for he was showing his teeth, and as Tom drew near, he spat on one hand, and took a fresh grip of the thick stick he carried. Then, taking a step forward, he raised the weapon, and aimed a savage blow at his adversary, that would in all probability have laid Tomhors de combat, at all events for a few minutes.But to give good effect to a blow struck with a stick, the object aimed at must be at a certain distance. If the blow fall when the object is beyond or within that distance, its efficacy is very much diminished.Now as Pete struck at Tom, the latter was for a time at exactly the right distance, but as the boy rushed at him, or rather leaped at him at last, he was not in the aforesaid position long enough, and the blow did not fall till he was right upon Pete, getting a smart rap, but having the satisfaction of seeing the young scoundrel go down as if shot, and roll over and over at the foot of the tree.Tom went down too, for he could not check himself; but he was up first, and ready enough to avoid another vicious blow from the cudgel, and catch Pete right in the mouth a most unscientific blow delivered with his right fist. All the same though it did its work, and Pete went down again.Once more he sprang up, and tried to strike with the stick, but Tom’s blood was up, and he closed with him, getting right in beyond his guard, and for the next few minutes there was a fierce struggle, ending in both going down together, Tom unfortunately undermost, and by the time he gained his feet his adversary was off again, running as hard as he could go.“A coward!” muttered Tom, after running a few yards and then giving up, to stand panting and exhausted. “Ugh! how my side hurts!” he said, as he clapped his hand upon his ribs where the blow from the stick had fallen. “I don’t care though; I won, and he has gone.”He stood trying to catch sight of Pete again, but could not see him, for the simple reason that the lad had dropped down behind a clump of bracken growing silver-leaved in the sunshine in an opening in the wood, and here he crept on, watching as, after hesitating, Tom began to retire hastily, so as to return to his uncle in the chair.Tom did not go far though without stopping, for he had aimed to reach the pit into which he had fallen, and here he stood gazing down, evidently puzzled, for there was something particular about the place which attracted him; while, to increase his interest, all at once there was a rustling noise, and Pete Warboys’ long lean dog thrust out its head from the side hole beneath the fir-tree roots, which hung out quite bare, looked up, saw who was gazing down, turned, and thrust out its long bony tail instead. This, however, was only seen for a moment and then gone.“That’s strange,” thought Tom, as he walked on back pretty fast now, for it suddenly occurred to him that his uncle must be out of patience, and that he had been longer than he thought for.He found too that he had run farther than he thought, and he was getting pretty hot and breathless by the time he trotted out of the wood, and into the sandy lane, where, instead of his uncle’s face as he sat looking back impatiently in the chair, there was the bare road and nothing more, save a red admiral butterfly flitting here and there and settling in the dust.“He must have asked somebody passing to wheel him back,” thought Tom, who immediately began to play Red Indian or Australian black, and look for the trail—to wit, the thin wheel-marks left by the chair. But though he found those which had been made in coming plainly lining the soft sandy road, and ran in different directions toward home, there were no returning tracks.“Then he must have gone on,” thought Tom; and he ran back to where he had left his uncle, to see now faintly in the hard road a continuation of the three wheel-marks, so very distinct from any that would have been left by cart or carriage, being very narrow, and three instead of two or four.He went on slowly trying to trace the wheel-marks, but the road soon became so hard that he missed them; a few yards farther on he saw the faint mark made by one, then again two showed, and then they ceased, but he was on the right track, he knew; and walking rapidly on down the hill, with his eyes now on the road, now right ahead toward the river and the ford, he began wondering who could have come along there, and where his uncle had made whoever it was take him.“Why it would be miles round to get home this way,” thought Tom. “Perhaps he was thirsty, and asked some one to take him down to the river, and is waiting.”It was not a good solution of the problem, and he was not satisfied, for there was no sign of the chair near the ford. But there were traces again in the sand which had been washed to the side, and here the chair had made a curve and run close to the bank for a few yards; then out into the hard road, and he saw no more for a couple of hundred yards, and then they were on the left-hand side, and Tom’s blood began to turn cold, as they say, for the tracks bore off to the side road leading down into the sand-pit.“Why the chair ran away with him, and perhaps he’s killed.”At this thought Tom’s legs ran away with him down into the thick sandy road, where the wheel-marks were deeply imprinted, showing that the chair had been that way.Now he had never been down into the pit, and only once as far as the edge, into which he had peered from the road above, whence he had looked down upon a colony of martins darting in and out of their holes in the sand-cliff. He had determined to examine the place, but that morning he was compelled to hurry back to breakfast. Now he had to explore the depths of the pit in a very different mood; and he was not half-way down the slope when he found that the wheels had suddenly curved off, and then, from the marks on the smooth sand, it had evidently turned over. And there, sixty or seventy yards away, and fully a hundred feet below him, it lay bottom upwards, while away to its right sat its late occupant, making signs with his stick.Tom did not attempt to go on down the roadway, which meant quite a journey, but began to descend at once, slipping, scrambling, falling and rolling over in the loose sand, which gave way at every step, and took him with it, till at last, hot and breathless, he reached the invalid’s side.“Hurt, uncle?” he panted.“Hurt, sir?” cried Uncle James angrily. “I’m nearly killed. I don’t think I’ve a whole bone left in my body. You dog! You scoundrel! You did it on purpose. You knew it was not safe to leave that miserable, wretched wreck of a thing. It was all out of revenge, and you wanted to kill me.”“Oh no, uncle,” cried Tom, staring in astonishment at the vigour his uncle had displayed. For there was no moaning, no holding the hand to the breast, and complaining of shortness of breath, but an undue display of excitement and anger, which had made cheeks burn and eyes glisten.“I’m very sorry, uncle; it was that young scoundrel’s fault.”“I don’t believe it, sir. It was a trick. Disgraceful!”“Wait a minute, uncle, and I’ll fetch the chair. I’ll get it here, and then help you up to the top before I take it up.”“Fetch the chair!” stormed James Brandon. “It’s a wreck, sir; one wheel’s off, and the front one’s all bent sidewise. Here, give me your hand.”He caught hold of the extended wrist, and with that and the stick, toiled up the steep slope, to the boy’s astonishment; and when they had reached the road, jerked the wrist from him, and walked on without a word till they came in sight of the house, when Tom plucked up the courage to speak.“Really, uncle, I did not think of anything but running after that lad.”“I want no excuses, sir,” cried Uncle James fiercely. “I know what it means. You are too idle—you are sick of wheeling the chair. It was all a planned thing. But mind, I shall take a note of it, and you will find out that you’ve made the great mistake of your life. Here, you sir!”This was to David, who was in the garden; and he hurried up.“Go and order me a fly to come here directly.”“From the station, sir? It’s over there all day now.”“From anywhere, only make haste.”“Yes, sir,” said David; and he gave Tom a sharp look as much as to say, “Rather too much of a good thing to go over there twice.” Then he fetched his coat and went off.“Hallo! Walking?” cried Uncle Richard, coming out of the observatory. “Where’s the chair?”“Broken, smashed, thanks to this young scoundrel; and it’s a mercy I’m alive. But I’ll have no more of this.”Uncle James strode into the house, and his brother turned to Tom for an explanation, and had it.“But he did not walk back all the way?”“Every step, uncle, and didn’t seem to mind it.”“Humph!” ejaculated Uncle Richard, frowning, as he locked up the yard gate and followed his brother into the house.Half-an-hour later Mrs Fidler announced dinner, when Uncle James came down looking black as thunder, and answered his brother in monosyllables, refusing to speak once to Tom, at whom he scowled heavily.“I’m sorry you had such an upset, James,” said Uncle Richard at last.“Thank you,” was the cold reply.“But I don’t think you are any the worse for it.”“Thank you!” said Uncle James again, but more shortly.“Tom, my lad, tell David as soon as dinner is over to borrow the Vicar’s cart, and go to the sand-pit and fetch the broken chair.”“David has gone to the station, uncle,” said Tom.“Station? What for?”“Uncle sent him for the fly.”“Fly?”“Yes, sir,” said Uncle James. “I sent your gardener for the fly, and if there’s any charge for his services I will pay him. I see I have outstayed my welcome, and the sooner I am off the better.”“My dear James, don’t be absurd,” said Uncle Richard. “What you say is childish.”“Of course, sir; sick and helpless men are always childish.”“There, don’t take it like that. Tom assures me it was an accident. If you are upset by it, let me send for the doctor to see you.”“Thank you; I’ll send for my own doctor as soon as I get back to town.”“You’re not going back to town to-day,” said Uncle Richard, smiling.“We shall see about that,” said Uncle James, rising from his place, for the dinner was at an end, and walking firmly enough out of the room.Uncle Richard frowned and looked troubled. Mrs Fidler looked at Tom, and as soon as they were alone she began to question him, and heard all.“Well,” she said, “I’m not going to make any remarks, my dear, it isn’t my duty; but I will say this, I don’t like to see your dear uncle imposed upon even by his brother, and I hope to goodness Mr James will keep his word, for I don’t believe you upset him on purpose.”Uncle James did keep his word, for an hour later he was in the fly with his portmanteau on his way to the station.“And never give me so much as a shilling, Master Tom, and me been twice to fetch that fly. If he wasn’t your uncle, sir, I’d call him mean. But what did you say? I’m to fetch the chair, as is lying broken at the big sand-pit?”“Yes, in Mr Maxted’s cart.”“Did it fall over?”“Yes, right over, down the slope from top to bottom.”“And him in it, sir?”“Yes.”“Then I’ll forgive him, and young Mr Sam Brandon too. My word, sir, I’d ha’ give something to ha’ been there to see.”“But he must have hurt himself, David.”“What there, sir? Tchah! that sand’s as soft as silk. Wouldn’t like to come and help fetch the chair, sir?”“Yes, I should, David; I should like the ride.”“Then come on, sir, and we’ll go round the other way from the Vicarage gates. Right from top to bottom, eh, sir? Well, I would have give something to ha’ been there to see.”
“I don’t want to fight,” thought Tom Blount, as he rushed off in pursuit of Pete Warboys, this time with full intention, and not led into it by accident. “Fighting means knocking the skin off one’s knuckles, black eyes, nose bleeding, and perhaps getting thrashed. And I may be, for he’s a big, strong, heavy fellow, and I don’t think I could hit him half hard enough to make him care. But it seems to me as if I must have a go at him. Can’t stand there and be pelted by such a fellow, it looks so cowardly. Besides, he’s a bit afraid, or he wouldn’t run away.”
All this and much more thought Tom, as he ran on as fast as he could on diving into the wood when he left the road. An hour or so ago, when Pete rushed in among the trees, Tom had soon given up the chase; but he felt that it would not do to let the young scoundrel feel that he was a kind of modern bold outlaw, with a sanctuary of his own in the woods; so clenching his fists hard, Tom sped on, making up his mind to run his quarry down.
“Uncle James won’t mind my leaving him, if I can go back and say I have punched Pete’s head for throwing stones at him.—Bother!”
Tom gathered himself up, and stood flinching during a few moments, for he had caught his foot against a closely-sawn-off stump, and though the earth was covered with pine-needles it was hard.
But the accident did not detain him many moments. There in front was Pete showing from time to time, as he dodged in and out among the tall columnar tree-trunks, now in shadow, now passing across some patch of sunshine; and Tom ran on faster than before, the pain having made him feel angry, and as if he must, to use his own words, “take it out of Pete,” he being the active cause.
From time to time the great hulking lad glanced back, expecting to see that he had shaken off his pursuer, but looked in vain, for Tom was now doggedly determined. His brow was knit, his teeth set, and his clenched fists held close to his sides, and after keeping up the high rate of speed for some minutes, he now, feeling that it was going to be a long chase, settled down to a steady football or hare-and-hound trot, which combined fair pace with a likelihood of being able to stay.
Pete Warboys too had been compelled to slacken somewhat in his clumsy bovine rush, and Tom observed with satisfaction, as the minutes went on, and they must have been—pursuer and pursued—toiling over the slippery fir-needles for quite a quarter of an hour, that Pete glanced over his shoulder more often than before.
“He’s getting pumped out,” muttered Tom. “He’s so big that he can’t keep his wind, and he’ll stop short soon. Oh, I say, why don’t I look where I’m going!”
For this time the sandy earth had suddenly given way beneath him, just in the darkest part of the wood, and he plumped right down to the bottom of a rough pit, and went on before he could stop himself right under the roots of a great fir-tree, half of which stood out bare and strange, over what looked like an enormous rabbit-hole.
Tom looked wonderingly at the hole, and backed out into the pit, climbed out, and continued his chase, rather breathlessly now, for the fall had not been good for his breathing apparatus. He had lost ground too, but he soon made that up, for Pete was getting exhausted; and, what seemed strange, since Tom’s last fall he had turned off, and appeared to be running in a circle, till all at once he stopped short with his back up against a tree, panting heavily, and with the perspiration dripping from his forehead.
There was a vicious look in the fellow’s countenance, for he was showing his teeth, and as Tom drew near, he spat on one hand, and took a fresh grip of the thick stick he carried. Then, taking a step forward, he raised the weapon, and aimed a savage blow at his adversary, that would in all probability have laid Tomhors de combat, at all events for a few minutes.
But to give good effect to a blow struck with a stick, the object aimed at must be at a certain distance. If the blow fall when the object is beyond or within that distance, its efficacy is very much diminished.
Now as Pete struck at Tom, the latter was for a time at exactly the right distance, but as the boy rushed at him, or rather leaped at him at last, he was not in the aforesaid position long enough, and the blow did not fall till he was right upon Pete, getting a smart rap, but having the satisfaction of seeing the young scoundrel go down as if shot, and roll over and over at the foot of the tree.
Tom went down too, for he could not check himself; but he was up first, and ready enough to avoid another vicious blow from the cudgel, and catch Pete right in the mouth a most unscientific blow delivered with his right fist. All the same though it did its work, and Pete went down again.
Once more he sprang up, and tried to strike with the stick, but Tom’s blood was up, and he closed with him, getting right in beyond his guard, and for the next few minutes there was a fierce struggle, ending in both going down together, Tom unfortunately undermost, and by the time he gained his feet his adversary was off again, running as hard as he could go.
“A coward!” muttered Tom, after running a few yards and then giving up, to stand panting and exhausted. “Ugh! how my side hurts!” he said, as he clapped his hand upon his ribs where the blow from the stick had fallen. “I don’t care though; I won, and he has gone.”
He stood trying to catch sight of Pete again, but could not see him, for the simple reason that the lad had dropped down behind a clump of bracken growing silver-leaved in the sunshine in an opening in the wood, and here he crept on, watching as, after hesitating, Tom began to retire hastily, so as to return to his uncle in the chair.
Tom did not go far though without stopping, for he had aimed to reach the pit into which he had fallen, and here he stood gazing down, evidently puzzled, for there was something particular about the place which attracted him; while, to increase his interest, all at once there was a rustling noise, and Pete Warboys’ long lean dog thrust out its head from the side hole beneath the fir-tree roots, which hung out quite bare, looked up, saw who was gazing down, turned, and thrust out its long bony tail instead. This, however, was only seen for a moment and then gone.
“That’s strange,” thought Tom, as he walked on back pretty fast now, for it suddenly occurred to him that his uncle must be out of patience, and that he had been longer than he thought for.
He found too that he had run farther than he thought, and he was getting pretty hot and breathless by the time he trotted out of the wood, and into the sandy lane, where, instead of his uncle’s face as he sat looking back impatiently in the chair, there was the bare road and nothing more, save a red admiral butterfly flitting here and there and settling in the dust.
“He must have asked somebody passing to wheel him back,” thought Tom, who immediately began to play Red Indian or Australian black, and look for the trail—to wit, the thin wheel-marks left by the chair. But though he found those which had been made in coming plainly lining the soft sandy road, and ran in different directions toward home, there were no returning tracks.
“Then he must have gone on,” thought Tom; and he ran back to where he had left his uncle, to see now faintly in the hard road a continuation of the three wheel-marks, so very distinct from any that would have been left by cart or carriage, being very narrow, and three instead of two or four.
He went on slowly trying to trace the wheel-marks, but the road soon became so hard that he missed them; a few yards farther on he saw the faint mark made by one, then again two showed, and then they ceased, but he was on the right track, he knew; and walking rapidly on down the hill, with his eyes now on the road, now right ahead toward the river and the ford, he began wondering who could have come along there, and where his uncle had made whoever it was take him.
“Why it would be miles round to get home this way,” thought Tom. “Perhaps he was thirsty, and asked some one to take him down to the river, and is waiting.”
It was not a good solution of the problem, and he was not satisfied, for there was no sign of the chair near the ford. But there were traces again in the sand which had been washed to the side, and here the chair had made a curve and run close to the bank for a few yards; then out into the hard road, and he saw no more for a couple of hundred yards, and then they were on the left-hand side, and Tom’s blood began to turn cold, as they say, for the tracks bore off to the side road leading down into the sand-pit.
“Why the chair ran away with him, and perhaps he’s killed.”
At this thought Tom’s legs ran away with him down into the thick sandy road, where the wheel-marks were deeply imprinted, showing that the chair had been that way.
Now he had never been down into the pit, and only once as far as the edge, into which he had peered from the road above, whence he had looked down upon a colony of martins darting in and out of their holes in the sand-cliff. He had determined to examine the place, but that morning he was compelled to hurry back to breakfast. Now he had to explore the depths of the pit in a very different mood; and he was not half-way down the slope when he found that the wheels had suddenly curved off, and then, from the marks on the smooth sand, it had evidently turned over. And there, sixty or seventy yards away, and fully a hundred feet below him, it lay bottom upwards, while away to its right sat its late occupant, making signs with his stick.
Tom did not attempt to go on down the roadway, which meant quite a journey, but began to descend at once, slipping, scrambling, falling and rolling over in the loose sand, which gave way at every step, and took him with it, till at last, hot and breathless, he reached the invalid’s side.
“Hurt, uncle?” he panted.
“Hurt, sir?” cried Uncle James angrily. “I’m nearly killed. I don’t think I’ve a whole bone left in my body. You dog! You scoundrel! You did it on purpose. You knew it was not safe to leave that miserable, wretched wreck of a thing. It was all out of revenge, and you wanted to kill me.”
“Oh no, uncle,” cried Tom, staring in astonishment at the vigour his uncle had displayed. For there was no moaning, no holding the hand to the breast, and complaining of shortness of breath, but an undue display of excitement and anger, which had made cheeks burn and eyes glisten.
“I’m very sorry, uncle; it was that young scoundrel’s fault.”
“I don’t believe it, sir. It was a trick. Disgraceful!”
“Wait a minute, uncle, and I’ll fetch the chair. I’ll get it here, and then help you up to the top before I take it up.”
“Fetch the chair!” stormed James Brandon. “It’s a wreck, sir; one wheel’s off, and the front one’s all bent sidewise. Here, give me your hand.”
He caught hold of the extended wrist, and with that and the stick, toiled up the steep slope, to the boy’s astonishment; and when they had reached the road, jerked the wrist from him, and walked on without a word till they came in sight of the house, when Tom plucked up the courage to speak.
“Really, uncle, I did not think of anything but running after that lad.”
“I want no excuses, sir,” cried Uncle James fiercely. “I know what it means. You are too idle—you are sick of wheeling the chair. It was all a planned thing. But mind, I shall take a note of it, and you will find out that you’ve made the great mistake of your life. Here, you sir!”
This was to David, who was in the garden; and he hurried up.
“Go and order me a fly to come here directly.”
“From the station, sir? It’s over there all day now.”
“From anywhere, only make haste.”
“Yes, sir,” said David; and he gave Tom a sharp look as much as to say, “Rather too much of a good thing to go over there twice.” Then he fetched his coat and went off.
“Hallo! Walking?” cried Uncle Richard, coming out of the observatory. “Where’s the chair?”
“Broken, smashed, thanks to this young scoundrel; and it’s a mercy I’m alive. But I’ll have no more of this.”
Uncle James strode into the house, and his brother turned to Tom for an explanation, and had it.
“But he did not walk back all the way?”
“Every step, uncle, and didn’t seem to mind it.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Uncle Richard, frowning, as he locked up the yard gate and followed his brother into the house.
Half-an-hour later Mrs Fidler announced dinner, when Uncle James came down looking black as thunder, and answered his brother in monosyllables, refusing to speak once to Tom, at whom he scowled heavily.
“I’m sorry you had such an upset, James,” said Uncle Richard at last.
“Thank you,” was the cold reply.
“But I don’t think you are any the worse for it.”
“Thank you!” said Uncle James again, but more shortly.
“Tom, my lad, tell David as soon as dinner is over to borrow the Vicar’s cart, and go to the sand-pit and fetch the broken chair.”
“David has gone to the station, uncle,” said Tom.
“Station? What for?”
“Uncle sent him for the fly.”
“Fly?”
“Yes, sir,” said Uncle James. “I sent your gardener for the fly, and if there’s any charge for his services I will pay him. I see I have outstayed my welcome, and the sooner I am off the better.”
“My dear James, don’t be absurd,” said Uncle Richard. “What you say is childish.”
“Of course, sir; sick and helpless men are always childish.”
“There, don’t take it like that. Tom assures me it was an accident. If you are upset by it, let me send for the doctor to see you.”
“Thank you; I’ll send for my own doctor as soon as I get back to town.”
“You’re not going back to town to-day,” said Uncle Richard, smiling.
“We shall see about that,” said Uncle James, rising from his place, for the dinner was at an end, and walking firmly enough out of the room.
Uncle Richard frowned and looked troubled. Mrs Fidler looked at Tom, and as soon as they were alone she began to question him, and heard all.
“Well,” she said, “I’m not going to make any remarks, my dear, it isn’t my duty; but I will say this, I don’t like to see your dear uncle imposed upon even by his brother, and I hope to goodness Mr James will keep his word, for I don’t believe you upset him on purpose.”
Uncle James did keep his word, for an hour later he was in the fly with his portmanteau on his way to the station.
“And never give me so much as a shilling, Master Tom, and me been twice to fetch that fly. If he wasn’t your uncle, sir, I’d call him mean. But what did you say? I’m to fetch the chair, as is lying broken at the big sand-pit?”
“Yes, in Mr Maxted’s cart.”
“Did it fall over?”
“Yes, right over, down the slope from top to bottom.”
“And him in it, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll forgive him, and young Mr Sam Brandon too. My word, sir, I’d ha’ give something to ha’ been there to see.”
“But he must have hurt himself, David.”
“What there, sir? Tchah! that sand’s as soft as silk. Wouldn’t like to come and help fetch the chair, sir?”
“Yes, I should, David; I should like the ride.”
“Then come on, sir, and we’ll go round the other way from the Vicarage gates. Right from top to bottom, eh, sir? Well, I would have give something to ha’ been there to see.”
Chapter Twenty Three.“Humph!” ejaculated Uncle Richard, as he finished his inspection of the bath-chair just taken out of the Vicar’s cart. “See that the carrier calls for it, David, to take it back to Guildford; and you, Tom, write for me to the man it was hired from, pointing out that we have had an accident, and tell him to send in his bill.”“And it’ll be a big ’un, Master Tom,” said David, chuckling and rubbing his hands as soon as his master was out of hearing. “My word, it’s got it, and no mistake. One wheel right off, the front all twissen, and the axle-tree bent. It’ll be like making a new ’un. Tck!”“You wouldn’t laugh like that, David, if you’d got it to pay for,” said Tom.“True for you, Master Tom; but I wasn’t laughing at the ravage, but at the idee of your uncle, who creeps about thinking he’s very bad when he arn’t thinking o’ nothing else, going spinning down the hill, and steering hisself right into the old sand-pit.”“And I don’t see that you have anything to laugh at in that,” said Tom stiffly.“More don’t I, Master Tom, but I keep on laughing all the more, and can’t help it. Now if he had been very badly, I don’t think I could ha’ done it.”“My uncle is very ill, and came down here for the benefit of his health,” said Tom sternly.“Then your nursing, Master Tom, and my vegetables and fruit’s done him a lot o’ good, for the way he walked home after being spilt did us a lot o’ credit. I couldn’t ha’ walked better.”Tom thought the same, though he would not say so, but helped the gardener place the wrecked chair in the coach-house, and then found his uncle coming that way.“Get the wheelbarrow, Tom,” he said, “and we’ll take the new discs of glass into the workshop.”“And begin again, uncle?” cried Tom excitedly.“What, are you ready to go through all that labour again?”“Ready, uncle?” cried the boy reproachfully. “Why, all the while Uncle James has been down here it has seemed to be like so much waste of time.”“Humph!” ejaculated Uncle Richard; “then we must work over hours to win back the loss. Help him on with the case carefully, David, and I’ll go first to open the door.”“Say, Master Tom,” said the gardener, “ain’t it more waste o’ time to go glass-grinding and making contrapshums like this? Hey, but it’s precious heavy,” he continued, as he helped to lift one end of the case on to the long barrow.“Waste of time to make scientific instruments?” cried Tom.“Ay. What’s the good on it when it’s done?”“To look at the sun, moon, and stars, to be sure.”“Well, you can do that without tallow-scoops, sir; and you take my advice, don’t you get looking at the sun through none o’ them things, sir. Hey, but it be a weight!” he continued, raising the handles of the barrow.“Never mind; I can manage it,” cried Tom.“Then I arn’t going to let you, sir.”“Why not?”“’Cause my muskles is hard and yours is soft, and may get stretched and strained. Hold that there door back. It’s all up-hill, you know; master never thought o’ that.”David wheeled the heavy case up to the door of the old mill, helped to carry the case in, and then in a whisper said—“Let’s have a look at him when you’ve done, Master Tom.”“Look at whom?” said the boy wonderingly.“Man in the moon,” replied David, with a chuckle, as he trotted back with the barrow, and Uncle Richard came down from the observatory to take out the screws and unpack the two discs.Within an hour they were at work again, and day after day passed—wasted days, David said.“Master and you had a deal better set to work and build me a vinery to grow some more grapes,” he grumbled; but Tom laughed, and the speculum gradually began to assume its proper form.There had only been one brief letter in answer to two sent making inquiries, and this letter said that Uncle James was much better, and regularly attending the office.“My vegetables,” said David, when he was told. “Nothing like ’em, and plenty o’ fresh air, Master Tom, to set a man right. But just you come and look here.”He led the way down the garden to where, the Marie Louise pear-tree spread its long branches upon the wall, each laden with the soft green fruit hanging to the long thin stalks, which looked too fragile to bear so great a weight.“Pears?” said Tom. “Yes, I was looking at them yesterday, and thinking how good they must be.”“Nay, but they am’t, Master Tom; that’s just it. If you was to pick one o’ they—which would be a sin, sir—and stick your teeth into it, you’d find it hard and tasting sappy like chewed leaves.”“Why I thought they were ripe.”“Nay, not them, sir. You want to take a pear, sir, just at the right moment.”“And when is the right moment for a pear?”David laughed, and shook his head.“Tends on what sort it is, sir. Some’s at their best in September, and some in October. Then you goes on to December and January, and right on to April. Why the round pears on that little tree yonder don’t get ripe till April and May. Like green bullets now, but by that time, or even June, if you take care on ’em, they’re like brown skins’ full o’ rich sugary juice.”“But these must be ripe, David.”“Nay, sir, they’re not. As I told you afore, if you pick ’em too soon they srivels. When they’re quite ripe they’re just beginning to turn creamy colour like.”“Well, they’re a very nice lot, David.”“Yes, sir; and what am I to do?”“Let ’em hang.”“I wish I could, sir, but I feel as if I dursn’t.”“Dare not! Why?”“Fear they might walk over the wall.”“What, be stolen?”“Ay, my lad. I come in at that gate at six this morning, and was going gently down the centre walk, when it was like having a sort o’ stroke, for there was a head just peeping over the wall.”“A stranger?”“I couldn’t quite see, sir; but I’m ’most ready to swear as it was Pete Warboys, looking to see if they was ready to go into his pockets.”“Then let’s pick them at once,” cried Tom.“Dear lad, what is the use o’ my teaching of you,” said David reproachfully. “Don’t I keep on telling o’ you as they’d srivel up; and what’s a pear then? It ain’t as if it was a walnut, where the srivel’s a ornyment to the shell.”“Then let’s lie wait for my gentleman with a couple o’ sticks.”David’s wrinkled face expanded, and his eyes nearly-closed.“Hah! Now you’re talking sense, sir,” he said, in a husky whisper, as if the idea was too good to be spoken aloud. “Hazel sticks, sir—thick ’uns?”“Hazel! A young scoundrel!” cried Tom.“Nay, he’s an old ’un, sir, in wickedness.”“Hazel is no good. I’d take old broomsticks to him,” cried Tom indignantly. “Oh, I do hate a thief.”“Ay, sir, that comes nat’ral, ’speshly a thief as comes robbin’ of a garden. House-breakers and highwaymen’s bad enough; but a thief as come a-robbin’ a garden, where you’ve been nussin’ the things up for years and years—ah! there’s nothing worse than that.”“You’ve got some old birch brooms, David,” cried Tom, without committing himself to the gardener’s sentiments.“Birch, sir? Tchah! Birch would only tickle him, even if we could hit him on the bare skin.”“Nonsense! I didn’t mean the birch, I meant the broomsticks.”“Oh, I see!” said David. “But nay, nay, sir, that wouldn’t do. You see, when a man’s monkey’s up he hits hard; and if you and me ketched Pete Warboys over in our garden, and hit as hard as we could, we might break him; and though I says to you it wouldn’t be a bit o’ consequence, that there old rampagin’ witch of a granny of his would come up here cursing every one, and making such filliloo that there’d be no bearing it.”“Well, that wouldn’t harm anybody.”“I dunno, sir; I dunno,” said David thoughtfully.“Why, David, you don’t believe in witches and ill-wishing, and all that sort of stuff, do you?”“Me, sir?” cried the gardener; “not likely. But it’s just as well to be the safe side o’ the hedge, you know, in case there might be something in it.”Tom laughed, and David shook his head solemnly.“Why, I believe you do believe in it all,” said Tom.“Nay, sir, I don’t,” cried the old fellow indignantly; “and don’t you go saying such things.”“Ha—ha—ha!” laughed Tom.“Ah, you may laugh, sir; but Parson Maxted’s handsome young Jarsey cow did die.”“Well, all cows die some time,” cried Tom.“Ay, sir, that’s true; but not after old Mother Warboys has stood cussin’ for ever so long about the milk.”“And did she?”“Ay, that she did, sir, right in the middle o’ the road, because the cook give her yes’day’s skim-milk instead o’ to-day’s noo.”Tom laughed again.“I say, what about the pears?”“Ay, what about the pears? You wouldn’t come down in the dark and keep watch.”“Wouldn’t I!” cried Tom excitedly.“Besides, we might ketch him, and him fly at you.”“I wish he would,” said Tom.“And then it would be in the dark.”“Of course.”“Not till late at night, perhaps.”“Well, what of that?”“And maybe he wouldn’t come in the night at all, but steal over the wall just before it gets light, when you’d be in your bed. Yes, that’s just the sort of time when he would come.”“I should have to ask uncle to let me sit up with you, David.”“Ah, I thought that would be it,” said David; “ask your uncle.”“Look here, David,” cried Tom, flushing. “I shouldn’t say I’d like to come if I didn’t mean it. I’m not going to get into trouble by slipping out on the sly.”“It’s all over,” said David. “I thought so. Master’d never let you sit up and watch, sir. I thought you wouldn’t.”“Well, we’ll soon prove that,” cried Tom. “Here is uncle.”“Yes; what is it?” said Uncle Richard, coming across the garden.“David’s afraid of the pears being stolen, uncle, for he saw some one examining them this morning, and he’s going to sit up to-night and watch. Do you mind my sitting up too?”“Sitting up? No, I think not, Tom, only mind and don’t get hurt. You are more likely to catch a thief at daybreak though, I should say.”“Mebbe, sir,” said David; “but I think if you didn’t mind I’d try to-night first.”“By all means, David. I should be sorry to lose those pears again.”“There!” cried Tom, as soon as they were alone; “do you think I want to back out now?”David laughed, and rubbed his hands together between his knees.“Come on, Master Tom, and I’ll get the billhook. Then we’ll go and cut a couple of good young hazel rods in the copse.”“Then you won’t have broomsticks, David?”“Nay, sir, they’d be too heavy and too stiff. I know the sort—good stout young hazels as won’t break when you hit with ’em, but wrop well round.”The hazels were cut and carried back to the garden, burdened with their twigs and greenery.“He might be about, and think they was meant for him, if we trimmed ’em into sticks, Master Tom. He won’t think anything if he sees ’em like this.”The hazels were shortened to a convenient length as soon as they were in the garden, David chuckling loudly the while.“I owe that chap a lot, Master Tom, and if I can get a chance I mean to pay him this time. Hit low, sir, if you get a crack at him.”“Not likely to hurt him,” said Tom.“More likely, sir. Trousers are thin, ’specially hisn, and they’ve got some good holes in ’em generally, where you might reach his skin; ’sides, you’re not likely to cut his face or injure his eyes. Nothing like hitting low. Now, then, I’m going on with my reg’lar work, and as soon as it’s dark I shall be down here in among the blackcurrants, with a couple of old sacks and a horse-cloth, for us to sit on, so as not to ketch rheumatics.”“About what time?” said Tom.“Arpus eight, sir. There’s no moon to-night so it’ll be pretty dark; but we shall hear him.”“If he comes,” said Tom.“Course, sir, if he comes. But we’ll chance that, and if he don’t, why we shall know as my pears is safe.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Uncle Richard, as he finished his inspection of the bath-chair just taken out of the Vicar’s cart. “See that the carrier calls for it, David, to take it back to Guildford; and you, Tom, write for me to the man it was hired from, pointing out that we have had an accident, and tell him to send in his bill.”
“And it’ll be a big ’un, Master Tom,” said David, chuckling and rubbing his hands as soon as his master was out of hearing. “My word, it’s got it, and no mistake. One wheel right off, the front all twissen, and the axle-tree bent. It’ll be like making a new ’un. Tck!”
“You wouldn’t laugh like that, David, if you’d got it to pay for,” said Tom.
“True for you, Master Tom; but I wasn’t laughing at the ravage, but at the idee of your uncle, who creeps about thinking he’s very bad when he arn’t thinking o’ nothing else, going spinning down the hill, and steering hisself right into the old sand-pit.”
“And I don’t see that you have anything to laugh at in that,” said Tom stiffly.
“More don’t I, Master Tom, but I keep on laughing all the more, and can’t help it. Now if he had been very badly, I don’t think I could ha’ done it.”
“My uncle is very ill, and came down here for the benefit of his health,” said Tom sternly.
“Then your nursing, Master Tom, and my vegetables and fruit’s done him a lot o’ good, for the way he walked home after being spilt did us a lot o’ credit. I couldn’t ha’ walked better.”
Tom thought the same, though he would not say so, but helped the gardener place the wrecked chair in the coach-house, and then found his uncle coming that way.
“Get the wheelbarrow, Tom,” he said, “and we’ll take the new discs of glass into the workshop.”
“And begin again, uncle?” cried Tom excitedly.
“What, are you ready to go through all that labour again?”
“Ready, uncle?” cried the boy reproachfully. “Why, all the while Uncle James has been down here it has seemed to be like so much waste of time.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Uncle Richard; “then we must work over hours to win back the loss. Help him on with the case carefully, David, and I’ll go first to open the door.”
“Say, Master Tom,” said the gardener, “ain’t it more waste o’ time to go glass-grinding and making contrapshums like this? Hey, but it’s precious heavy,” he continued, as he helped to lift one end of the case on to the long barrow.
“Waste of time to make scientific instruments?” cried Tom.
“Ay. What’s the good on it when it’s done?”
“To look at the sun, moon, and stars, to be sure.”
“Well, you can do that without tallow-scoops, sir; and you take my advice, don’t you get looking at the sun through none o’ them things, sir. Hey, but it be a weight!” he continued, raising the handles of the barrow.
“Never mind; I can manage it,” cried Tom.
“Then I arn’t going to let you, sir.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause my muskles is hard and yours is soft, and may get stretched and strained. Hold that there door back. It’s all up-hill, you know; master never thought o’ that.”
David wheeled the heavy case up to the door of the old mill, helped to carry the case in, and then in a whisper said—
“Let’s have a look at him when you’ve done, Master Tom.”
“Look at whom?” said the boy wonderingly.
“Man in the moon,” replied David, with a chuckle, as he trotted back with the barrow, and Uncle Richard came down from the observatory to take out the screws and unpack the two discs.
Within an hour they were at work again, and day after day passed—wasted days, David said.
“Master and you had a deal better set to work and build me a vinery to grow some more grapes,” he grumbled; but Tom laughed, and the speculum gradually began to assume its proper form.
There had only been one brief letter in answer to two sent making inquiries, and this letter said that Uncle James was much better, and regularly attending the office.
“My vegetables,” said David, when he was told. “Nothing like ’em, and plenty o’ fresh air, Master Tom, to set a man right. But just you come and look here.”
He led the way down the garden to where, the Marie Louise pear-tree spread its long branches upon the wall, each laden with the soft green fruit hanging to the long thin stalks, which looked too fragile to bear so great a weight.
“Pears?” said Tom. “Yes, I was looking at them yesterday, and thinking how good they must be.”
“Nay, but they am’t, Master Tom; that’s just it. If you was to pick one o’ they—which would be a sin, sir—and stick your teeth into it, you’d find it hard and tasting sappy like chewed leaves.”
“Why I thought they were ripe.”
“Nay, not them, sir. You want to take a pear, sir, just at the right moment.”
“And when is the right moment for a pear?”
David laughed, and shook his head.
“Tends on what sort it is, sir. Some’s at their best in September, and some in October. Then you goes on to December and January, and right on to April. Why the round pears on that little tree yonder don’t get ripe till April and May. Like green bullets now, but by that time, or even June, if you take care on ’em, they’re like brown skins’ full o’ rich sugary juice.”
“But these must be ripe, David.”
“Nay, sir, they’re not. As I told you afore, if you pick ’em too soon they srivels. When they’re quite ripe they’re just beginning to turn creamy colour like.”
“Well, they’re a very nice lot, David.”
“Yes, sir; and what am I to do?”
“Let ’em hang.”
“I wish I could, sir, but I feel as if I dursn’t.”
“Dare not! Why?”
“Fear they might walk over the wall.”
“What, be stolen?”
“Ay, my lad. I come in at that gate at six this morning, and was going gently down the centre walk, when it was like having a sort o’ stroke, for there was a head just peeping over the wall.”
“A stranger?”
“I couldn’t quite see, sir; but I’m ’most ready to swear as it was Pete Warboys, looking to see if they was ready to go into his pockets.”
“Then let’s pick them at once,” cried Tom.
“Dear lad, what is the use o’ my teaching of you,” said David reproachfully. “Don’t I keep on telling o’ you as they’d srivel up; and what’s a pear then? It ain’t as if it was a walnut, where the srivel’s a ornyment to the shell.”
“Then let’s lie wait for my gentleman with a couple o’ sticks.”
David’s wrinkled face expanded, and his eyes nearly-closed.
“Hah! Now you’re talking sense, sir,” he said, in a husky whisper, as if the idea was too good to be spoken aloud. “Hazel sticks, sir—thick ’uns?”
“Hazel! A young scoundrel!” cried Tom.
“Nay, he’s an old ’un, sir, in wickedness.”
“Hazel is no good. I’d take old broomsticks to him,” cried Tom indignantly. “Oh, I do hate a thief.”
“Ay, sir, that comes nat’ral, ’speshly a thief as comes robbin’ of a garden. House-breakers and highwaymen’s bad enough; but a thief as come a-robbin’ a garden, where you’ve been nussin’ the things up for years and years—ah! there’s nothing worse than that.”
“You’ve got some old birch brooms, David,” cried Tom, without committing himself to the gardener’s sentiments.
“Birch, sir? Tchah! Birch would only tickle him, even if we could hit him on the bare skin.”
“Nonsense! I didn’t mean the birch, I meant the broomsticks.”
“Oh, I see!” said David. “But nay, nay, sir, that wouldn’t do. You see, when a man’s monkey’s up he hits hard; and if you and me ketched Pete Warboys over in our garden, and hit as hard as we could, we might break him; and though I says to you it wouldn’t be a bit o’ consequence, that there old rampagin’ witch of a granny of his would come up here cursing every one, and making such filliloo that there’d be no bearing it.”
“Well, that wouldn’t harm anybody.”
“I dunno, sir; I dunno,” said David thoughtfully.
“Why, David, you don’t believe in witches and ill-wishing, and all that sort of stuff, do you?”
“Me, sir?” cried the gardener; “not likely. But it’s just as well to be the safe side o’ the hedge, you know, in case there might be something in it.”
Tom laughed, and David shook his head solemnly.
“Why, I believe you do believe in it all,” said Tom.
“Nay, sir, I don’t,” cried the old fellow indignantly; “and don’t you go saying such things.”
“Ha—ha—ha!” laughed Tom.
“Ah, you may laugh, sir; but Parson Maxted’s handsome young Jarsey cow did die.”
“Well, all cows die some time,” cried Tom.
“Ay, sir, that’s true; but not after old Mother Warboys has stood cussin’ for ever so long about the milk.”
“And did she?”
“Ay, that she did, sir, right in the middle o’ the road, because the cook give her yes’day’s skim-milk instead o’ to-day’s noo.”
Tom laughed again.
“I say, what about the pears?”
“Ay, what about the pears? You wouldn’t come down in the dark and keep watch.”
“Wouldn’t I!” cried Tom excitedly.
“Besides, we might ketch him, and him fly at you.”
“I wish he would,” said Tom.
“And then it would be in the dark.”
“Of course.”
“Not till late at night, perhaps.”
“Well, what of that?”
“And maybe he wouldn’t come in the night at all, but steal over the wall just before it gets light, when you’d be in your bed. Yes, that’s just the sort of time when he would come.”
“I should have to ask uncle to let me sit up with you, David.”
“Ah, I thought that would be it,” said David; “ask your uncle.”
“Look here, David,” cried Tom, flushing. “I shouldn’t say I’d like to come if I didn’t mean it. I’m not going to get into trouble by slipping out on the sly.”
“It’s all over,” said David. “I thought so. Master’d never let you sit up and watch, sir. I thought you wouldn’t.”
“Well, we’ll soon prove that,” cried Tom. “Here is uncle.”
“Yes; what is it?” said Uncle Richard, coming across the garden.
“David’s afraid of the pears being stolen, uncle, for he saw some one examining them this morning, and he’s going to sit up to-night and watch. Do you mind my sitting up too?”
“Sitting up? No, I think not, Tom, only mind and don’t get hurt. You are more likely to catch a thief at daybreak though, I should say.”
“Mebbe, sir,” said David; “but I think if you didn’t mind I’d try to-night first.”
“By all means, David. I should be sorry to lose those pears again.”
“There!” cried Tom, as soon as they were alone; “do you think I want to back out now?”
David laughed, and rubbed his hands together between his knees.
“Come on, Master Tom, and I’ll get the billhook. Then we’ll go and cut a couple of good young hazel rods in the copse.”
“Then you won’t have broomsticks, David?”
“Nay, sir, they’d be too heavy and too stiff. I know the sort—good stout young hazels as won’t break when you hit with ’em, but wrop well round.”
The hazels were cut and carried back to the garden, burdened with their twigs and greenery.
“He might be about, and think they was meant for him, if we trimmed ’em into sticks, Master Tom. He won’t think anything if he sees ’em like this.”
The hazels were shortened to a convenient length as soon as they were in the garden, David chuckling loudly the while.
“I owe that chap a lot, Master Tom, and if I can get a chance I mean to pay him this time. Hit low, sir, if you get a crack at him.”
“Not likely to hurt him,” said Tom.
“More likely, sir. Trousers are thin, ’specially hisn, and they’ve got some good holes in ’em generally, where you might reach his skin; ’sides, you’re not likely to cut his face or injure his eyes. Nothing like hitting low. Now, then, I’m going on with my reg’lar work, and as soon as it’s dark I shall be down here in among the blackcurrants, with a couple of old sacks and a horse-cloth, for us to sit on, so as not to ketch rheumatics.”
“About what time?” said Tom.
“Arpus eight, sir. There’s no moon to-night so it’ll be pretty dark; but we shall hear him.”
“If he comes,” said Tom.
“Course, sir, if he comes. But we’ll chance that, and if he don’t, why we shall know as my pears is safe.”
Chapter Twenty Four.Tom Blount did not make a very good tea that evening, for he was excited by thoughts of the coming watch.He was not in the least afraid, but his face felt flushed, and there was a curious tingling in the nerves which made him picture a scene in the garden, in which he was chasing Pete Warboys round and round, getting a cut at him with the stick from time to time, and at last making him turn at bay, when a desperate fight ensued.It seemed a long time too till half-past eight, and though he took up a book of natural history full of interest, it seemed to be as hard reading asTidd’s Practice, in Gray’s Inn.“Seat uncomfortable, Tom?” said his uncle at last.“No, uncle,” said the boy, colouring. “Why?”“Because you can’t sit still. Oh, I understand. You are thinking of going out to watch.”“Yes, uncle.”“Humph! More than the pears are worth, Tom.”“Do you think so, uncle?”“Decidedly. But there, the thief deserves to be caught—and thrashed; but don’t be too hard upon him.”Tom brightened up at this, and looked at the clock on the mantel-piece.“Why, it’s stopped,” he said.“Stopped? Nonsense,” said Uncle Richard, looking at his watch.“But it must have stopped. I don’t think it has moved lately.”“The clock is going all right, Tom, but not so fast as your desires. There, try a little patience; and don’t stop after ten. If the plunderer is not here by that time he will not come to-night—if he comes at all.”“Very well, uncle,” said Tom, and after another glance at the clock, which still did not seem to move, he settled down with his head resting upon his fists, to study the giraffe, of which there was a large engraving, with its hide looking like a piece of the map of the moon, the spots being remarkably similar to the craters and ring-plains upon the moon’s surface, while the giraffe itself, with its long sprawling legs, would put him in mind of Pete Warboys. Then he read how it had been designed by nature for its peculiar life in the desert, and so that it could easily reach up and crop the leaves of trees from fifteen to twenty feet above the ground; but it did not, as he pictured it in his mind, seem to be picking leaves, but Marie Louise pears, while David was creeping up behind with his elastic hazel stick, and—Ting.Half-past eight by the dining-room clock, and Tom sprang up.“Going, my boy?”“Yes, uncle, David will be waiting.”Uncle Richard nodded, and taking his cap and the hazel stick he had brought in, the boy went out silently, to find that it was a very soft dark night—so dark, in fact, that as soon as he had stepped on to the lawn he walked into one of the great bushes of laurustinus, and backed out hurriedly to reconsider which was the way. Then he stepped gently forward over the soft damp grass of the lawn, with his eyes now growing more accustomed to the darkness.Directly after there was a low whistle heard.“Where are you, David?”“Here, sir. Come down between the raspberries.”“Where are they, David? All right, I see now,” whispered Tom, and he stepped as far as he could across the flower-bed, which ran down beside the kitchen-garden, and the next minute felt the gardener’s hand stretched out to take his.“Got your stick, sir?”“Yes; all right. He hasn’t come then yet.”“Not yet, sir. Here you are; now you can kneel down alongside o’ me. Mustn’t be no more talking.”Tom knelt on the soft horse-cloth, feeling his knees indent the soil beneath; and then with his head below the tops of the black-currant bushes, whose leaves gave out their peculiar medicinal smell, he found that though perfectly hidden he could dimly make out the top of the garden wall, where the pears hung thickly not many feet away, and the watchers were so situated that a spring would take them into the path, close to any marauder who might come.“One moment, David,” whispered Tom, “and then I won’t speak again. Which way do you think he’ll come?”“Over the wall from the field, and then up along the bed, so as his feet arn’t heard. If I hear anything I nips you in the leg. If you hear anything, you nips me.”“Not too hard,” said Tom, and the watch began.At first there was the rattle of a cart heard coming along the road, a long way off, and Tom knelt there sniffing the odour of the blackcurrants, and trying to calculate where the cart would be. But after a time that reached the village and passed on, and the tramp of the horse and the rattle of the wheels died out.Then he listened to the various sounds in the village—voices, the closing of doors, the rattle of shutters; and all at once the church clock began to strike, the nine thumps on the bell coming very slowly, and the last leaving a quivering, booming sound in the air which lasted for some time.After this all was very still, and it was quite a relief to hear the barking of a dog from some distance away, followed by the faintly-heard rattle of a chain drawn over the entrance of the kennel, when the barking ceased, and repeated directly after as the barking began again.Everything then was wonderfully still and dark, till a peculiar cry arose—a weird, strange cry, as of something in pain, which thrilled Tom’s nerves.“Rabbit?” he whispered.“Hedgehog,” grumbled David hoarsely; “don’t talk.”Silence again for a minute or two, and the peculiar sensation caused by the cry of the bristly animal still hung in Tom’s nerves, when there was another noise which produced a thoroughly different effect, for a donkey from somewhere out on the common suddenly gave vent to its doleful extraordinary bray, ending in a most dismal squeaking yell, suggestive of all the wind being out of its organ.Tom smiled as he knelt there, wondering how Nature could have given an animal so strange a cry, as all was again still, till voices arose once more in the village; some one said “Good-night!” then a door banged, and,pat pat, he could hear faintly retiring steps, “Good-night” repeated, and then close to his elbow—Snor-rr-re.“David!” he whispered, as he touched the gardener on the shoulder—“David!”“Arn’t better taters grow’d, I say, and—Eh? Is he comed?”“No! Listen,” said Tom, thinking it as well not to allude to his companion’s lapse.“Oh ay, I’m a-listenin’, sir, with all my might,” whispered the gardener; “but I don’t think it’s him yet. Wait a bit, and we’ll nab him if he don’t mind.”Silence again for quite ten minutes, and then David exclaimed—“Wuph!” and lurched over sidewise up against his companion, but jerked himself up again, and said in a gruff whisper full of reproach, “Don’t go to sleep, Master Tom.”“No. All right, I’m awake,” replied the boy, laughing to himself, and the watching went on again, the time passing very slowly, and the earth which had felt so soft beneath the knees gradually turning hard.There was not a sound to be heard now, till the heavy breathing on his left suggested that David was dozing off again, and set him thinking that one was enough to keep vigil, and that he could easily rouse his companion if the thief came.He felt a little vexed at first that David, who had been so eager to watch, should make such a lapse; but just in his most indignant moments, when he felt disposed to give a sudden lurch sidewise to knock the gardener over like a skittle, and paused, hesitating, he had an admonition, which showed him how weak human nature is at such times, in the shape of a sudden seizure. One moment he was wakeful and thinking, the next he was fast asleep, dreaming of being back at Gray’s Inn—soundly asleep, in fact.This did not last while a person could have counted ten. Then he was wide-awake again, ready to continue the watch, and let David rest.“It’s rum though,” he said to himself, as he crouched there, and now softly picked a leaf to nibble, and feel suggestions of taking a powder in a spoonful of black-currant jelly, so strong was the flavour in the leaf. “Very rum,” he thought. “One’s wide-awake, and the next moment fast asleep.”He started then, for he fancied that he heard a sound, but though he listened attentively he could distinguish nothing; and the time went on, with David’s breathing growing more deep and heavy; and upon feeling gently to his left, it was to find that the gardener was now right down with his elbows on the ground and his face upon his hands.“Any one might come and clear all the pears away if I were not here.”But Tom felt very good-humoured over the business, as he thought of certain remarks he would be able to make to the gardener next day; and he was running over this, and wishing that some one would come to break the monotonous vigil, when there was the sound of a door opening up at the cottage, and then steps on the gravel path. Directly after Uncle Richard’s voice was heard.“Now, Tom, my lad, just ten o’clock; give it up for to-night. Where are you?”Before Tom could make answer there was a quick movement on his left, an elbow was jerked into his ribs, and David exclaimed in a husky whisper—“Now, my lad, wake up. Here’s your uncle.”“Yes, uncle, here!” cried Tom, as he clapped his hand to his side.“Well, have you got him?”“Nay, sir,” said David; “nobody been here to-night, but I shall ketch him yet.”“No, no, be off home to bed,” said Uncle Richard.“Bime by, sir. I’ll make it twelve first,” said David.“No,” cried Uncle Richard decisively. “It is not likely that any one will come now.”“Then he’ll be here before it’s light,” said David.“Perhaps, but we can’t spare time for this night work. Home with you,” cried Uncle Richard.“Tell you what then, sir, I’ll go and lie down for an hour or two, and get here again before it’s light.”“Very well,” said Uncle Richard. “I’ll fasten the gate after you. Good-night. No: you run to the gate with him, Tom.”“All right, uncle,” cried the boy; and then, “Oh my! how stiff my knees are. How are yours, David?” he continued, as they walked to the gate.“Bit of a touch o’ rheumatiz in ’em, sir. Ground’s rayther damp. Good-night, sir. We’ll have him yet.”“Good-night,” said Tom. “But I say, David, did you have a good nap?”“Good what, sir? Nap? Me have a nap? Why, you don’t think as I went to sleep?”“No, I don’t think so,” cried Tom, laughing.“Don’t you say that now, sir; don’t you go and say such a word. Come, I do like that: me go to sleep? Why, sir, it was you, and you got dreaming as I slep’. I do like that.”“All right, David. Good-night.”Tom closed the gate, and ten minutes later he was in bed asleep.
Tom Blount did not make a very good tea that evening, for he was excited by thoughts of the coming watch.
He was not in the least afraid, but his face felt flushed, and there was a curious tingling in the nerves which made him picture a scene in the garden, in which he was chasing Pete Warboys round and round, getting a cut at him with the stick from time to time, and at last making him turn at bay, when a desperate fight ensued.
It seemed a long time too till half-past eight, and though he took up a book of natural history full of interest, it seemed to be as hard reading asTidd’s Practice, in Gray’s Inn.
“Seat uncomfortable, Tom?” said his uncle at last.
“No, uncle,” said the boy, colouring. “Why?”
“Because you can’t sit still. Oh, I understand. You are thinking of going out to watch.”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Humph! More than the pears are worth, Tom.”
“Do you think so, uncle?”
“Decidedly. But there, the thief deserves to be caught—and thrashed; but don’t be too hard upon him.”
Tom brightened up at this, and looked at the clock on the mantel-piece.
“Why, it’s stopped,” he said.
“Stopped? Nonsense,” said Uncle Richard, looking at his watch.
“But it must have stopped. I don’t think it has moved lately.”
“The clock is going all right, Tom, but not so fast as your desires. There, try a little patience; and don’t stop after ten. If the plunderer is not here by that time he will not come to-night—if he comes at all.”
“Very well, uncle,” said Tom, and after another glance at the clock, which still did not seem to move, he settled down with his head resting upon his fists, to study the giraffe, of which there was a large engraving, with its hide looking like a piece of the map of the moon, the spots being remarkably similar to the craters and ring-plains upon the moon’s surface, while the giraffe itself, with its long sprawling legs, would put him in mind of Pete Warboys. Then he read how it had been designed by nature for its peculiar life in the desert, and so that it could easily reach up and crop the leaves of trees from fifteen to twenty feet above the ground; but it did not, as he pictured it in his mind, seem to be picking leaves, but Marie Louise pears, while David was creeping up behind with his elastic hazel stick, and—
Ting.
Half-past eight by the dining-room clock, and Tom sprang up.
“Going, my boy?”
“Yes, uncle, David will be waiting.”
Uncle Richard nodded, and taking his cap and the hazel stick he had brought in, the boy went out silently, to find that it was a very soft dark night—so dark, in fact, that as soon as he had stepped on to the lawn he walked into one of the great bushes of laurustinus, and backed out hurriedly to reconsider which was the way. Then he stepped gently forward over the soft damp grass of the lawn, with his eyes now growing more accustomed to the darkness.
Directly after there was a low whistle heard.
“Where are you, David?”
“Here, sir. Come down between the raspberries.”
“Where are they, David? All right, I see now,” whispered Tom, and he stepped as far as he could across the flower-bed, which ran down beside the kitchen-garden, and the next minute felt the gardener’s hand stretched out to take his.
“Got your stick, sir?”
“Yes; all right. He hasn’t come then yet.”
“Not yet, sir. Here you are; now you can kneel down alongside o’ me. Mustn’t be no more talking.”
Tom knelt on the soft horse-cloth, feeling his knees indent the soil beneath; and then with his head below the tops of the black-currant bushes, whose leaves gave out their peculiar medicinal smell, he found that though perfectly hidden he could dimly make out the top of the garden wall, where the pears hung thickly not many feet away, and the watchers were so situated that a spring would take them into the path, close to any marauder who might come.
“One moment, David,” whispered Tom, “and then I won’t speak again. Which way do you think he’ll come?”
“Over the wall from the field, and then up along the bed, so as his feet arn’t heard. If I hear anything I nips you in the leg. If you hear anything, you nips me.”
“Not too hard,” said Tom, and the watch began.
At first there was the rattle of a cart heard coming along the road, a long way off, and Tom knelt there sniffing the odour of the blackcurrants, and trying to calculate where the cart would be. But after a time that reached the village and passed on, and the tramp of the horse and the rattle of the wheels died out.
Then he listened to the various sounds in the village—voices, the closing of doors, the rattle of shutters; and all at once the church clock began to strike, the nine thumps on the bell coming very slowly, and the last leaving a quivering, booming sound in the air which lasted for some time.
After this all was very still, and it was quite a relief to hear the barking of a dog from some distance away, followed by the faintly-heard rattle of a chain drawn over the entrance of the kennel, when the barking ceased, and repeated directly after as the barking began again.
Everything then was wonderfully still and dark, till a peculiar cry arose—a weird, strange cry, as of something in pain, which thrilled Tom’s nerves.
“Rabbit?” he whispered.
“Hedgehog,” grumbled David hoarsely; “don’t talk.”
Silence again for a minute or two, and the peculiar sensation caused by the cry of the bristly animal still hung in Tom’s nerves, when there was another noise which produced a thoroughly different effect, for a donkey from somewhere out on the common suddenly gave vent to its doleful extraordinary bray, ending in a most dismal squeaking yell, suggestive of all the wind being out of its organ.
Tom smiled as he knelt there, wondering how Nature could have given an animal so strange a cry, as all was again still, till voices arose once more in the village; some one said “Good-night!” then a door banged, and,pat pat, he could hear faintly retiring steps, “Good-night” repeated, and then close to his elbow—
Snor-rr-re.
“David!” he whispered, as he touched the gardener on the shoulder—“David!”
“Arn’t better taters grow’d, I say, and—Eh? Is he comed?”
“No! Listen,” said Tom, thinking it as well not to allude to his companion’s lapse.
“Oh ay, I’m a-listenin’, sir, with all my might,” whispered the gardener; “but I don’t think it’s him yet. Wait a bit, and we’ll nab him if he don’t mind.”
Silence again for quite ten minutes, and then David exclaimed—
“Wuph!” and lurched over sidewise up against his companion, but jerked himself up again, and said in a gruff whisper full of reproach, “Don’t go to sleep, Master Tom.”
“No. All right, I’m awake,” replied the boy, laughing to himself, and the watching went on again, the time passing very slowly, and the earth which had felt so soft beneath the knees gradually turning hard.
There was not a sound to be heard now, till the heavy breathing on his left suggested that David was dozing off again, and set him thinking that one was enough to keep vigil, and that he could easily rouse his companion if the thief came.
He felt a little vexed at first that David, who had been so eager to watch, should make such a lapse; but just in his most indignant moments, when he felt disposed to give a sudden lurch sidewise to knock the gardener over like a skittle, and paused, hesitating, he had an admonition, which showed him how weak human nature is at such times, in the shape of a sudden seizure. One moment he was wakeful and thinking, the next he was fast asleep, dreaming of being back at Gray’s Inn—soundly asleep, in fact.
This did not last while a person could have counted ten. Then he was wide-awake again, ready to continue the watch, and let David rest.
“It’s rum though,” he said to himself, as he crouched there, and now softly picked a leaf to nibble, and feel suggestions of taking a powder in a spoonful of black-currant jelly, so strong was the flavour in the leaf. “Very rum,” he thought. “One’s wide-awake, and the next moment fast asleep.”
He started then, for he fancied that he heard a sound, but though he listened attentively he could distinguish nothing; and the time went on, with David’s breathing growing more deep and heavy; and upon feeling gently to his left, it was to find that the gardener was now right down with his elbows on the ground and his face upon his hands.
“Any one might come and clear all the pears away if I were not here.”
But Tom felt very good-humoured over the business, as he thought of certain remarks he would be able to make to the gardener next day; and he was running over this, and wishing that some one would come to break the monotonous vigil, when there was the sound of a door opening up at the cottage, and then steps on the gravel path. Directly after Uncle Richard’s voice was heard.
“Now, Tom, my lad, just ten o’clock; give it up for to-night. Where are you?”
Before Tom could make answer there was a quick movement on his left, an elbow was jerked into his ribs, and David exclaimed in a husky whisper—
“Now, my lad, wake up. Here’s your uncle.”
“Yes, uncle, here!” cried Tom, as he clapped his hand to his side.
“Well, have you got him?”
“Nay, sir,” said David; “nobody been here to-night, but I shall ketch him yet.”
“No, no, be off home to bed,” said Uncle Richard.
“Bime by, sir. I’ll make it twelve first,” said David.
“No,” cried Uncle Richard decisively. “It is not likely that any one will come now.”
“Then he’ll be here before it’s light,” said David.
“Perhaps, but we can’t spare time for this night work. Home with you,” cried Uncle Richard.
“Tell you what then, sir, I’ll go and lie down for an hour or two, and get here again before it’s light.”
“Very well,” said Uncle Richard. “I’ll fasten the gate after you. Good-night. No: you run to the gate with him, Tom.”
“All right, uncle,” cried the boy; and then, “Oh my! how stiff my knees are. How are yours, David?” he continued, as they walked to the gate.
“Bit of a touch o’ rheumatiz in ’em, sir. Ground’s rayther damp. Good-night, sir. We’ll have him yet.”
“Good-night,” said Tom. “But I say, David, did you have a good nap?”
“Good what, sir? Nap? Me have a nap? Why, you don’t think as I went to sleep?”
“No, I don’t think so,” cried Tom, laughing.
“Don’t you say that now, sir; don’t you go and say such a word. Come, I do like that: me go to sleep? Why, sir, it was you, and you got dreaming as I slep’. I do like that.”
“All right, David. Good-night.”
Tom closed the gate, and ten minutes later he was in bed asleep.