Chapter Seven.Mr Bruff’s Present.That boating trip formed a topic of conversation in the study morning after morning when the rector was not present—a peculiar form of conversation when Distin was there—which was not regularly, for the accident on the river served as an excuse for several long stays in bed—but a free and unfettered form when he was not present. For Macey soon freed Vane from any feeling of an irksome nature by insisting to Gilmore how he had been to blame.Gilmore looked very serious at first, but laughed directly after.“I really thought it was an accident,” he said; “and I felt the more convinced that it was on hearing poor old hot-headed Distie accuse you, Vane, because, of course, I knew you would not do such a thing; and I thought Macey blamed himself to save you.”“Thought me a better sort of fellow than I am, then,” said Macey.“Much,” replied Gilmore, quietly. “You couldn’t see old Weathercock trying to drown all his friends.”“I didn’t,” cried Macey, indignantly. “I only wanted to give Distie a cooling down.”“And nicely you did it,” cried Gilmore.“There, don’t talk any more about it,” cried Vane, who was busy sketching upon some exercise paper. “It’s all over, and doesn’t bear thinking about.”“What’s he doing?” cried Macey, reaching across the table, and making a snatch at the paper, which Vane tried hurriedly to withdraw, but only saved a corner, while Macey waved his portion in triumph.“Hoo-rah!” he cried. “It’s a plan for a new patent steamboat, and I shall make one, and gain a fortune, while poor old Vane will be left out in the cold.”“Let’s look,” said Gilmore.“No, no. It’s too bad,” cried Vane, making a fresh dash at the paper.“Shan’t have it, sir! Sit down,” cried Macey. “How dare you, sir! Look, Gil! It is a boat to go by steam, with a whipper-whopper out at the stern to send her along.”“I wish you wouldn’t be so stupid, Aleck. Give me the paper.”“Shan’t.”“I don’t want to get up and make a struggle for it.”“I should think not, sir. Sit still. Oh, I say, Gil, look. Here it all is. It’s not steam. It’s a fellow with long arms and queer elbows turns a wheel.”“Get out!” cried Vane, laughing; “those are shafts and cranks.”“Of course they are. No one would think it, though, would they, Gil? I say, isn’t he a genius at drawing?”“Look here, Aleck, if you don’t be quiet with your chaff I’ll ink your nose.”“Wonderful, isn’t he?” continued Macey. “I say, how many hundred miles an hour a boat like that will go!”“Oh, I say, do drop it,” cried Vane, good-humouredly.“I know,” cried Macey; “this is what you were thinking about that day we had Rounds’ boat.”“Well, yes,” said Vane, quietly. “I couldn’t help thinking how slow and laborious rowing seemed to be, and how little change has been made in all these years that are passed. You see,” he continued, warming to his subject, “there is so much waste of manual labour. It took two of us to move that boat and not very fast either.”“And only one sitting quite still to upset it,” said Gilmore quietly.Macey started, as if he had been stung.“There’s a coward,” he cried. “I thought you weren’t going to say any more about it.”“Slipped out all at once, Aleck,” said Gilmore.“But you were quite right,” said Vane. “Two fellows toiling hard, and just one idea from another’s brain proved far stronger.”“Now you begin,” groaned Macey. “Oh, I say, don’t! I wouldn’t have old Distie know for anything. You chaps are mean.”“Go on, Vane,” cried Gilmore.“There’s nothing more to go on about, for I haven’t worked out the idea thoroughly.”“I know,” cried Macey, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.“I thought,” continued Vane dreamily, “that one might contrive a little paddle or screw—”“And work it with hot-water pipes,” cried Macey.It was Vane’s turn to wince now; and he made a pretence of throwing a book at Macey, who ducked down below the table, and then slowly raised his eyes to the level as Vane went on.“Then you could work that paddle by means of cranks.”“Only want one—old Weathercock. Best crank I know,” cried Macey.“Will you be quiet,” cried Gilmore. “Go on, Vane.”“That is nearly all,” said the latter, thoughtfully, and looking straight before him, as if he could see the motive-power he mentally designed.“But how are you going to get the thing to work?”“Kitchen-boiler,” cried Macey.Gilmore made “an offer” at him with his fist, but Macey dodged again.“Oh, one might move it by working a lever with one’s hands.”“Then you might just as well row,” said Gilmore.“Well, then, by treadles, with one’s feet.”“Oh—oh—oh!” roared Macey. “Don’t! don’t! Who’s going to be put on the tread-mill when he wants to have a ride in a boat? Why, I—”“Pst! Syme!” whispered Gilmore, as a step was heard. Then the door opened, and Distin came in, looking languid and indifferent.“Morning,” cried Gilmore. “Better?”Distin gave him a short nod, paid no heed to the others, and went to his place to take up a book, yawning loudly as he did so. Then he opened the book slowly.“Look!” cried Macey, with a mock aspect of serious interest.“Eh? What at?” said Vane.“The book,” cried Macey; and then he yawned tremendously. “Oh, dear! I’ve got it now.”Vane stared.“Don’t you see? You, being a scientific chap, ought to have noticed it directly. Example of the contagious nature of a yawn.”Oddly enough, Gilmore yawned slightly just at the moment, and, putting his hand to his mouth, said to himself, “Oh, dear me!”“There!” cried Macey, triumphantly, “that theory’s safe. Distie comes in, sits down, yawns; then the book yawns, I yawn, Gilmore yawns. You might, could, would, or should yawn, only you don’t, and—”“Good-morning, gentlemen. I’m a bit late, I fear. Had a little walk after breakfast, and ran against Doctor Lee, who took me in to see his greenhouse. He tells me you are going to heat it by hot-water. Why, Vane, you are quite a genius.”Macey reached out a leg to kick Vane under the table, but it was Distin’s shin which received the toe of the lad’s boot, just as Gilmore moved suddenly.Distin uttered a sharp ejaculation, and looked fiercely across at Gilmore.“What did you do that for?” he cried.“What?”“Kick me under the table.”“I did not.”“Yes, you—”“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” cried the rector reprovingly, “this is not a small boarding-school, and you are not school-boys. I was speaking.”“I beg your pardon, sir,” cried Gilmore.Distin was silent, and Macey, who was scarlet in the face; glanced across at Vane, and seemed as if he were going to choke with suppressed laughter, while Vane fidgeted about in his seat.The rector frowned, coughed, changed his position, smiled, and went on, going back a little to pick up his words where he had left off.“Quite a genius, Vane—yes, I repeat it, quite a genius.”“Oh, no, sir; it will be easy enough.”“After once doing, Vane,” said the rector, “but the first invention—the contriving—is, I beg to say, hard. However, I am intensely gratified to see that you are putting your little—little—little—what shall I call them?”“Dodges, sir,” suggested Macey, deferentially.“No, Mr Macey, that is too commonplace—too low a term for the purpose, and we will, if you please, say schemes.”“Yes, sir,” said Macey, seriously—“schemes.”“Schemes to so useful a purpose,” continued the rector; “and I shall ask you to superintend the fitting up of my conservatory upon similar principles.”“Really, sir, I—” began Vane; but the rector smiled and raised a protesting hand.“Don’t refuse me, Vane,” he said. “Of course I shall beg that you do not attempt any of the manual labour—merely superintend; but I shall exact one thing, if you consent to do it for me. That is, if the one at the manor succeeds.”“Of course I will do it, if you wish, sir,” said Vane.“I felt sure you would. I said so to your uncle, and your aunt said she was certain you would,” continued the rector; “but, as I was saying, I shall exact one thing: as my cook is a very particular woman, and would look startled if I even proposed to go into the kitchen—”He paused, and Vane, who was in misery, glanced at Macey—to see that he was thoroughly enjoying it all, while Distin’s countenance expressed the most sovereign contempt.“I say, Vane Lee,” said the rector again, as if he expected an answer, “I shall exact one thing.”“Yes, sir. What?”“That the rule of the queen of the kitchen be respected; but—ah, let me see, Mr Distin, I think we were to take up the introductory remarks made on the differential calculus.”And the morning’s study at the rectory went on.“Best bit of fun I’ve had for a long time,” cried Macey, as he strolled out with Vane when the readings were at an end.“Yes, at my expense,” cried Vane sharply. “My leg hurts still with that kick.”“Oh, that’s nothing,” cried Macey; “I kicked old Distie twice as hard by mistake, and he’s wild with Gilmore because he thinks it’s he.”Vane gripped him by the collar.“No, no, don’t. I apologise,” cried Macey. “Don’t be a coward.”“You deserve a good kicking,” cried Vane, loosing his grasp.“Yes, I know I do, but be magnanimous in your might, oh man of genius.”“Look here,” cried Vane, grinding his teeth, “if you call me a genius again, I will kick you, and hard too.”“But I must. My mawmaw said I was always to speak the truth, sir.”“Yes, and I’ll make you speak the truth, too. Such nonsense! Genius! Just because one can use a few tools, and scheme a little. It’s absurd.”“All right. I will not call you a genius any more. But I say, old chap, shall you try and make a boat go by machinery?”“I should like to,” said Vane, who became dreamy and thoughtful directly. “But I have no boat.”“Old Rounds would lend you his. There was a jolly miller lived down by the Greythorpe river,” sang Macey.“Nonsense! He wouldn’t lend me his boat to cut about.”“Sell it you.”Vane shook his head. “Cost too much.”“Then, why cut it? You ought to be able to make a machine that would fit into a boat with screws, or be stuck like a box under the thwarts.”“Yes, so I might. I didn’t think of that,” cried Vane, eagerly. “I’ll try it.”“There,” said Macey, “that comes of having a clever chap at your elbow like yours most obediently. Halves!”“Eh?”“I say, halves! I invented part of the machine, and I want to share. But when are you going to begin old Syme’s conservatory?”“Oh, dear!” sighed Vane. “I’d forgotten that. Come along. Let’s try and think out the paddles as you propose. I fancy one might get something like a fish’s tail to propel a boat.”“What, by just waggling?”“It seems to me to be possible.”“Come on, and let’s do it then,” cried Macey, starting to trot along the road. “I want to get the taste of Distin out of my mouth.—I say—”“Well?”“Don’t I wish his mother wanted him so badly that he was obliged to go back to the West Indies at once.—Hallo! Going to the wood?”“Yes, I don’t mean to be beaten over those fungi we had the other day,” cried Vane; and to prove that he did not, he inveigled Macey into accompanying him into the woods that afternoon, to collect another basketful—his companion assisting by nutting overhead, while Vane busied himself among the moss at the roots of the hazel stubs.“Going to have those for supper?” said Macey, as they were returning.Vane shook his head. “I suppose I mustn’t take these home to-day after all.”“Look here, come on with me to the rectory, and give ’em to Mr Syme.”“Pooh!—Why, he laughed at them.”“But you can tell him you had some for dinner at the Little Manor. I won’t say anything.”“I’ve a good mind to, for I’ve read that they are delicious if properly cooked,” cried Vane. “No, I don’t like to. But I should like to give them to someone, for I don’t care to see them wasted.”“Do bring them to the rectory, and I’ll coax Distie on into eating some. He will not know they are yours; and, if they upset him, he will not be of so much consequence as any one else.”But Vane shook his head as they walked thoughtfully back.“I know,” he cried, all at once; “I’ll give them to Mrs Bruff.”“But would she cook them?”“Let’s go and see. What time is it?”“Half-past four,” said Macey.“Plenty of time before he gets home from work.”Vane started off at such a rate that Macey had to cry out for respite as they struck out of the wood, and reached a lane where, to their surprise, they came plump upon the gipsies camped by the roadside, with a good fire burning, and their miserable horse cropping the grass in peace.The first objects their eyes lit upon were the women who were busily cooking; and Vane advanced and offered his basket of vegetable treasures, but they all laughed and shook their heads, and the oldest woman of the party grunted out the word “poison.”“There,” said Macey, as they went along the lane, “you hear. They ought to know whether those are good or no. If they were nice, do you think the gipsies would let them rot in the woods.”“But, you see, they don’t know,” said Vane quietly, and then he gripped his companion’s arm. “What’s that?” he whispered.“Some one talking in the wood.”“Poaching perhaps,” said Vane, as he peered in amongst the trees.Just then the voice ceased, and there was a rustling in amongst the bushes at the edge of the wood, as if somebody was forcing his way through, and resulting in one of the gipsy lads they had before seen, leaping out into the narrow deep lane, followed by the other.The lads seemed to be so astonished at the encounter that they stood staring at Vane and Macey for a few moments, then looked at each other, and then, as if moved by the same impulse, they turned and rushed back into the wood, and were hidden from sight directly.“What’s the matter with them?” said Vane. “They must have been at some mischief.”“Mad, I think,” said Macey. “All gipsies are half mad, or they wouldn’t go about, leading such a miserable life as they do. Song says a gipsy’s life is a merry life. Oh, is it? Nice life in wet, cold weather. They don’t look very merry, then.”“Never mind: it’s nothing to do with us. Come along.”Half-an-hour’s walking brought them into the open fields, and as they stood at the end of the lane in the shade of an oak tree, Macey said suddenly:“I say, there’s old Distie yonder. Where has he been? Bet twopence it was to see the gipsies and get his fortune told.”“For a walk as far as here, perhaps, and now he is going back.”Macey said it “seemed rum,” and they turned off then to reach Bruff’s cottage, close to the little town.“I don’t see anything rum in it,” Vane said, quietly.“Don’t you? Well, I do. Gilmore was stopping back to keep him company, wasn’t he? Well, where is Gilmore? And why is Distie cutting along so—at such a rate?”Vane did not reply, and Macey turned to look at him wonderingly.“Here! Hi! What’s the matter?”Vane started.“Matter?” he said, “nothing.”“What were you thinking about? Inventing something?”“Oh, no,” said Vane, confusedly. “Well, I was thinking about something I was making.”“Thought so. Well, I am glad I’m not such a Hobby-Bob sort of a fellow as you are. Syme says you’re a bit of a genius, ever since you made his study clock go; but you’re the worst bowler, batter, and fielder I know; you’re not worth twopence at football; and if one plays at anything else with you—spins a top, or flies a kite, or anything of that kind—you’re never satisfied without wanting to make the kite carry up a load, or making one top spin on the top of another, and—”“Take me altogether, I’m the most cranky, disagreeable fellow you ever knew, eh?” said Vane, interrupting.“Show me anyone who says so, and I’ll punch his head,” cried Macey, eagerly.“There he goes. No; he’s out of sight now.”“What, old Distie? Pooh! he’s nobody, only a creole, and don’t count.”The gardener’s cottage stood back from the road; its porch covered with roses, and the little garden quite a blaze of autumn flowers; and as they reached it, Vane paused for a moment to admire them.“Hallo!” cried Macey, “going to improve ’em?”“They don’t want it,” said Vane, quietly. “I was thinking that you always see better flowers in cottage gardens than anywhere else.”At that moment the gardener’s wife came to the door, smiling at her visitors, and Vane recollected the object of his visit.“I’ve brought you these, Mrs Bruff,” he said.“Toadstools, sir?” said the woman, opening her eyes widely.“No; don’t call them by that name,” cried Macey, merrily; “they’re philogustators.”“Kind of potaters, sir?” said the woman, innocently. “Are they for Eben to grow?”“No, for you to cook for his tea. Don’t say anything, but stew them with a little water and butter, pepper and salt.”“Oh, thank you, sir,” cried the woman. “Are they good?”“Delicious, if you cook them well.”“Indeed I will, sir. Thank you so much.”She took the basket, and wanted to pay for the present with some flowers, but the lads would only take a rosebud each, and went their way, to separate at the turning leading to the rectory gate.
That boating trip formed a topic of conversation in the study morning after morning when the rector was not present—a peculiar form of conversation when Distin was there—which was not regularly, for the accident on the river served as an excuse for several long stays in bed—but a free and unfettered form when he was not present. For Macey soon freed Vane from any feeling of an irksome nature by insisting to Gilmore how he had been to blame.
Gilmore looked very serious at first, but laughed directly after.
“I really thought it was an accident,” he said; “and I felt the more convinced that it was on hearing poor old hot-headed Distie accuse you, Vane, because, of course, I knew you would not do such a thing; and I thought Macey blamed himself to save you.”
“Thought me a better sort of fellow than I am, then,” said Macey.
“Much,” replied Gilmore, quietly. “You couldn’t see old Weathercock trying to drown all his friends.”
“I didn’t,” cried Macey, indignantly. “I only wanted to give Distie a cooling down.”
“And nicely you did it,” cried Gilmore.
“There, don’t talk any more about it,” cried Vane, who was busy sketching upon some exercise paper. “It’s all over, and doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“What’s he doing?” cried Macey, reaching across the table, and making a snatch at the paper, which Vane tried hurriedly to withdraw, but only saved a corner, while Macey waved his portion in triumph.
“Hoo-rah!” he cried. “It’s a plan for a new patent steamboat, and I shall make one, and gain a fortune, while poor old Vane will be left out in the cold.”
“Let’s look,” said Gilmore.
“No, no. It’s too bad,” cried Vane, making a fresh dash at the paper.
“Shan’t have it, sir! Sit down,” cried Macey. “How dare you, sir! Look, Gil! It is a boat to go by steam, with a whipper-whopper out at the stern to send her along.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so stupid, Aleck. Give me the paper.”
“Shan’t.”
“I don’t want to get up and make a struggle for it.”
“I should think not, sir. Sit still. Oh, I say, Gil, look. Here it all is. It’s not steam. It’s a fellow with long arms and queer elbows turns a wheel.”
“Get out!” cried Vane, laughing; “those are shafts and cranks.”
“Of course they are. No one would think it, though, would they, Gil? I say, isn’t he a genius at drawing?”
“Look here, Aleck, if you don’t be quiet with your chaff I’ll ink your nose.”
“Wonderful, isn’t he?” continued Macey. “I say, how many hundred miles an hour a boat like that will go!”
“Oh, I say, do drop it,” cried Vane, good-humouredly.
“I know,” cried Macey; “this is what you were thinking about that day we had Rounds’ boat.”
“Well, yes,” said Vane, quietly. “I couldn’t help thinking how slow and laborious rowing seemed to be, and how little change has been made in all these years that are passed. You see,” he continued, warming to his subject, “there is so much waste of manual labour. It took two of us to move that boat and not very fast either.”
“And only one sitting quite still to upset it,” said Gilmore quietly.
Macey started, as if he had been stung.
“There’s a coward,” he cried. “I thought you weren’t going to say any more about it.”
“Slipped out all at once, Aleck,” said Gilmore.
“But you were quite right,” said Vane. “Two fellows toiling hard, and just one idea from another’s brain proved far stronger.”
“Now you begin,” groaned Macey. “Oh, I say, don’t! I wouldn’t have old Distie know for anything. You chaps are mean.”
“Go on, Vane,” cried Gilmore.
“There’s nothing more to go on about, for I haven’t worked out the idea thoroughly.”
“I know,” cried Macey, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“I thought,” continued Vane dreamily, “that one might contrive a little paddle or screw—”
“And work it with hot-water pipes,” cried Macey.
It was Vane’s turn to wince now; and he made a pretence of throwing a book at Macey, who ducked down below the table, and then slowly raised his eyes to the level as Vane went on.
“Then you could work that paddle by means of cranks.”
“Only want one—old Weathercock. Best crank I know,” cried Macey.
“Will you be quiet,” cried Gilmore. “Go on, Vane.”
“That is nearly all,” said the latter, thoughtfully, and looking straight before him, as if he could see the motive-power he mentally designed.
“But how are you going to get the thing to work?”
“Kitchen-boiler,” cried Macey.
Gilmore made “an offer” at him with his fist, but Macey dodged again.
“Oh, one might move it by working a lever with one’s hands.”
“Then you might just as well row,” said Gilmore.
“Well, then, by treadles, with one’s feet.”
“Oh—oh—oh!” roared Macey. “Don’t! don’t! Who’s going to be put on the tread-mill when he wants to have a ride in a boat? Why, I—”
“Pst! Syme!” whispered Gilmore, as a step was heard. Then the door opened, and Distin came in, looking languid and indifferent.
“Morning,” cried Gilmore. “Better?”
Distin gave him a short nod, paid no heed to the others, and went to his place to take up a book, yawning loudly as he did so. Then he opened the book slowly.
“Look!” cried Macey, with a mock aspect of serious interest.
“Eh? What at?” said Vane.
“The book,” cried Macey; and then he yawned tremendously. “Oh, dear! I’ve got it now.”
Vane stared.
“Don’t you see? You, being a scientific chap, ought to have noticed it directly. Example of the contagious nature of a yawn.”
Oddly enough, Gilmore yawned slightly just at the moment, and, putting his hand to his mouth, said to himself, “Oh, dear me!”
“There!” cried Macey, triumphantly, “that theory’s safe. Distie comes in, sits down, yawns; then the book yawns, I yawn, Gilmore yawns. You might, could, would, or should yawn, only you don’t, and—”
“Good-morning, gentlemen. I’m a bit late, I fear. Had a little walk after breakfast, and ran against Doctor Lee, who took me in to see his greenhouse. He tells me you are going to heat it by hot-water. Why, Vane, you are quite a genius.”
Macey reached out a leg to kick Vane under the table, but it was Distin’s shin which received the toe of the lad’s boot, just as Gilmore moved suddenly.
Distin uttered a sharp ejaculation, and looked fiercely across at Gilmore.
“What did you do that for?” he cried.
“What?”
“Kick me under the table.”
“I did not.”
“Yes, you—”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” cried the rector reprovingly, “this is not a small boarding-school, and you are not school-boys. I was speaking.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” cried Gilmore.
Distin was silent, and Macey, who was scarlet in the face; glanced across at Vane, and seemed as if he were going to choke with suppressed laughter, while Vane fidgeted about in his seat.
The rector frowned, coughed, changed his position, smiled, and went on, going back a little to pick up his words where he had left off.
“Quite a genius, Vane—yes, I repeat it, quite a genius.”
“Oh, no, sir; it will be easy enough.”
“After once doing, Vane,” said the rector, “but the first invention—the contriving—is, I beg to say, hard. However, I am intensely gratified to see that you are putting your little—little—little—what shall I call them?”
“Dodges, sir,” suggested Macey, deferentially.
“No, Mr Macey, that is too commonplace—too low a term for the purpose, and we will, if you please, say schemes.”
“Yes, sir,” said Macey, seriously—“schemes.”
“Schemes to so useful a purpose,” continued the rector; “and I shall ask you to superintend the fitting up of my conservatory upon similar principles.”
“Really, sir, I—” began Vane; but the rector smiled and raised a protesting hand.
“Don’t refuse me, Vane,” he said. “Of course I shall beg that you do not attempt any of the manual labour—merely superintend; but I shall exact one thing, if you consent to do it for me. That is, if the one at the manor succeeds.”
“Of course I will do it, if you wish, sir,” said Vane.
“I felt sure you would. I said so to your uncle, and your aunt said she was certain you would,” continued the rector; “but, as I was saying, I shall exact one thing: as my cook is a very particular woman, and would look startled if I even proposed to go into the kitchen—”
He paused, and Vane, who was in misery, glanced at Macey—to see that he was thoroughly enjoying it all, while Distin’s countenance expressed the most sovereign contempt.
“I say, Vane Lee,” said the rector again, as if he expected an answer, “I shall exact one thing.”
“Yes, sir. What?”
“That the rule of the queen of the kitchen be respected; but—ah, let me see, Mr Distin, I think we were to take up the introductory remarks made on the differential calculus.”
And the morning’s study at the rectory went on.
“Best bit of fun I’ve had for a long time,” cried Macey, as he strolled out with Vane when the readings were at an end.
“Yes, at my expense,” cried Vane sharply. “My leg hurts still with that kick.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” cried Macey; “I kicked old Distie twice as hard by mistake, and he’s wild with Gilmore because he thinks it’s he.”
Vane gripped him by the collar.
“No, no, don’t. I apologise,” cried Macey. “Don’t be a coward.”
“You deserve a good kicking,” cried Vane, loosing his grasp.
“Yes, I know I do, but be magnanimous in your might, oh man of genius.”
“Look here,” cried Vane, grinding his teeth, “if you call me a genius again, I will kick you, and hard too.”
“But I must. My mawmaw said I was always to speak the truth, sir.”
“Yes, and I’ll make you speak the truth, too. Such nonsense! Genius! Just because one can use a few tools, and scheme a little. It’s absurd.”
“All right. I will not call you a genius any more. But I say, old chap, shall you try and make a boat go by machinery?”
“I should like to,” said Vane, who became dreamy and thoughtful directly. “But I have no boat.”
“Old Rounds would lend you his. There was a jolly miller lived down by the Greythorpe river,” sang Macey.
“Nonsense! He wouldn’t lend me his boat to cut about.”
“Sell it you.”
Vane shook his head. “Cost too much.”
“Then, why cut it? You ought to be able to make a machine that would fit into a boat with screws, or be stuck like a box under the thwarts.”
“Yes, so I might. I didn’t think of that,” cried Vane, eagerly. “I’ll try it.”
“There,” said Macey, “that comes of having a clever chap at your elbow like yours most obediently. Halves!”
“Eh?”
“I say, halves! I invented part of the machine, and I want to share. But when are you going to begin old Syme’s conservatory?”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Vane. “I’d forgotten that. Come along. Let’s try and think out the paddles as you propose. I fancy one might get something like a fish’s tail to propel a boat.”
“What, by just waggling?”
“It seems to me to be possible.”
“Come on, and let’s do it then,” cried Macey, starting to trot along the road. “I want to get the taste of Distin out of my mouth.—I say—”
“Well?”
“Don’t I wish his mother wanted him so badly that he was obliged to go back to the West Indies at once.—Hallo! Going to the wood?”
“Yes, I don’t mean to be beaten over those fungi we had the other day,” cried Vane; and to prove that he did not, he inveigled Macey into accompanying him into the woods that afternoon, to collect another basketful—his companion assisting by nutting overhead, while Vane busied himself among the moss at the roots of the hazel stubs.
“Going to have those for supper?” said Macey, as they were returning.
Vane shook his head. “I suppose I mustn’t take these home to-day after all.”
“Look here, come on with me to the rectory, and give ’em to Mr Syme.”
“Pooh!—Why, he laughed at them.”
“But you can tell him you had some for dinner at the Little Manor. I won’t say anything.”
“I’ve a good mind to, for I’ve read that they are delicious if properly cooked,” cried Vane. “No, I don’t like to. But I should like to give them to someone, for I don’t care to see them wasted.”
“Do bring them to the rectory, and I’ll coax Distie on into eating some. He will not know they are yours; and, if they upset him, he will not be of so much consequence as any one else.”
But Vane shook his head as they walked thoughtfully back.
“I know,” he cried, all at once; “I’ll give them to Mrs Bruff.”
“But would she cook them?”
“Let’s go and see. What time is it?”
“Half-past four,” said Macey.
“Plenty of time before he gets home from work.”
Vane started off at such a rate that Macey had to cry out for respite as they struck out of the wood, and reached a lane where, to their surprise, they came plump upon the gipsies camped by the roadside, with a good fire burning, and their miserable horse cropping the grass in peace.
The first objects their eyes lit upon were the women who were busily cooking; and Vane advanced and offered his basket of vegetable treasures, but they all laughed and shook their heads, and the oldest woman of the party grunted out the word “poison.”
“There,” said Macey, as they went along the lane, “you hear. They ought to know whether those are good or no. If they were nice, do you think the gipsies would let them rot in the woods.”
“But, you see, they don’t know,” said Vane quietly, and then he gripped his companion’s arm. “What’s that?” he whispered.
“Some one talking in the wood.”
“Poaching perhaps,” said Vane, as he peered in amongst the trees.
Just then the voice ceased, and there was a rustling in amongst the bushes at the edge of the wood, as if somebody was forcing his way through, and resulting in one of the gipsy lads they had before seen, leaping out into the narrow deep lane, followed by the other.
The lads seemed to be so astonished at the encounter that they stood staring at Vane and Macey for a few moments, then looked at each other, and then, as if moved by the same impulse, they turned and rushed back into the wood, and were hidden from sight directly.
“What’s the matter with them?” said Vane. “They must have been at some mischief.”
“Mad, I think,” said Macey. “All gipsies are half mad, or they wouldn’t go about, leading such a miserable life as they do. Song says a gipsy’s life is a merry life. Oh, is it? Nice life in wet, cold weather. They don’t look very merry, then.”
“Never mind: it’s nothing to do with us. Come along.”
Half-an-hour’s walking brought them into the open fields, and as they stood at the end of the lane in the shade of an oak tree, Macey said suddenly:
“I say, there’s old Distie yonder. Where has he been? Bet twopence it was to see the gipsies and get his fortune told.”
“For a walk as far as here, perhaps, and now he is going back.”
Macey said it “seemed rum,” and they turned off then to reach Bruff’s cottage, close to the little town.
“I don’t see anything rum in it,” Vane said, quietly.
“Don’t you? Well, I do. Gilmore was stopping back to keep him company, wasn’t he? Well, where is Gilmore? And why is Distie cutting along so—at such a rate?”
Vane did not reply, and Macey turned to look at him wonderingly.
“Here! Hi! What’s the matter?”
Vane started.
“Matter?” he said, “nothing.”
“What were you thinking about? Inventing something?”
“Oh, no,” said Vane, confusedly. “Well, I was thinking about something I was making.”
“Thought so. Well, I am glad I’m not such a Hobby-Bob sort of a fellow as you are. Syme says you’re a bit of a genius, ever since you made his study clock go; but you’re the worst bowler, batter, and fielder I know; you’re not worth twopence at football; and if one plays at anything else with you—spins a top, or flies a kite, or anything of that kind—you’re never satisfied without wanting to make the kite carry up a load, or making one top spin on the top of another, and—”
“Take me altogether, I’m the most cranky, disagreeable fellow you ever knew, eh?” said Vane, interrupting.
“Show me anyone who says so, and I’ll punch his head,” cried Macey, eagerly.
“There he goes. No; he’s out of sight now.”
“What, old Distie? Pooh! he’s nobody, only a creole, and don’t count.”
The gardener’s cottage stood back from the road; its porch covered with roses, and the little garden quite a blaze of autumn flowers; and as they reached it, Vane paused for a moment to admire them.
“Hallo!” cried Macey, “going to improve ’em?”
“They don’t want it,” said Vane, quietly. “I was thinking that you always see better flowers in cottage gardens than anywhere else.”
At that moment the gardener’s wife came to the door, smiling at her visitors, and Vane recollected the object of his visit.
“I’ve brought you these, Mrs Bruff,” he said.
“Toadstools, sir?” said the woman, opening her eyes widely.
“No; don’t call them by that name,” cried Macey, merrily; “they’re philogustators.”
“Kind of potaters, sir?” said the woman, innocently. “Are they for Eben to grow?”
“No, for you to cook for his tea. Don’t say anything, but stew them with a little water and butter, pepper and salt.”
“Oh, thank you, sir,” cried the woman. “Are they good?”
“Delicious, if you cook them well.”
“Indeed I will, sir. Thank you so much.”
She took the basket, and wanted to pay for the present with some flowers, but the lads would only take a rosebud each, and went their way, to separate at the turning leading to the rectory gate.
Chapter Eight.A Professional Visit.“Not going up to the rectory?” said the Doctor, next morning.“No, uncle,” said Vane, looking up from a book he was reading. “Joseph came with a note, before breakfast, to say that the rector was going over to Lincoln to-day, and that he hoped I would do a little private study at home.”“Then don’t, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah. “You read and study too much. Get the others to go out with you for some excursion.”Vane looked at her in a troubled way.“He was going to excursion into the workshop. Eh, boy?” said the doctor.“Yes, uncle, I did mean to.”“No, no, no, my dear; get some fresh air while it’s fine. Yes, Eliza.”“If you please, ma’am, cook says may she speak to you.”“Yes; send her in,” was the reply; and directly after Martha appeared, giving the last touches to secure the clean apron she had put on between kitchen and breakfast-room.“Cook’s cross,” said Vane to himself, as his aunt looked up with—“Well, cook?”“Sorry to trouble you, ma’am, but I want to know what I’m to do about my vegetables this morning.”“Cook them,” said Vane to himself, and then he repeated the words aloud, and added, “not like you did my poor chanterelles.”“Hush, Vane, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah, as the cook turned upon him fiercely. “I do not understand what you mean, Martha.”“I mean, ma’am,” said the cook, jerkily, but keeping her eyes fixed upon Vane, “that Bruff sent word as he’s too ill to come this morning; and I can’t be expected to go down gardens, digging potatoes and cutting cauliflowers for dinner. It isn’t my place.”“No, no, certainly not, Martha,” said Aunt Hannah. “Dear me! I am sorry Bruff is so ill. He was quite well yesterday.”“But I want the vegetables now, ma’am.”“And you shall have them, Martha,” said the doctor, rising, bowing, and opening the door for the cook to pass out, which she did, looking wondering and abashed at her master, as if not understanding what he meant.“Dear me!” continued the doctor, rubbing one ear, and apostrophising his nephew, “what a strange world this is. Now, by and by, Vane, that woman will leave here to marry and exist upon some working man’s income, and never trouble herself for a moment about whether it’s her place to go down the garden ‘to cut a cabbage to make an apple-pie,’ as the poet said—or somebody else; but be only too glad to feel that there is a cabbage in the garden to cut, and a potato to dig. Vane, my boy, will you come and hold the basket?”“No, uncle; I’ll soon dig a few, and cut the cauliflower,” said Vane, hastily; and he hurried toward the door.“I’ll go with you, my boy,” said the doctor; and he went out with his nephew, who was in a state of wondering doubt, respecting the gardener’s illness. For suppose that chanterelles were, after all, not good to eat, and he had poisoned the man!“Come along, Vane. We can find a basket and fork in the tool-house.”The doctor took down his straw hat, and led the way down the garden, looking very happy and contented, but extremely unlike the Savile Row physician, whom patients were eager to consult only a few years before.Then the tool-house was reached, and he shouldered a four-pronged fork, and Vane took the basket; the row of red kidney potatoes was selected, and the doctor began to dig and turn up a root of fine, well-ripened tubers.“Work that is the most ancient under the sun, Vane, my boy,” said the old gentleman, smiling. “Pick them up.”But Vane did not stir. He stood, basket in hand, thinking; and the more he thought the more uneasy he grew.“Ready? Pick them up!” cried the doctor. “What are you thinking about, eh?”Vane gave a jump.“I beg your pardon, uncle, I was thinking.”“I know that. What about?”“Bruff being ill.”“Hum! Yes,” said the doctor, lifting the fork to remove a potato which he had accidentally impaled. “I think I know what’s the matter with Master Bruff.”“So do I, uncle. Will you come on and see him, as soon as we have got enough vegetables?”“Physician’s fee is rather high for visiting a patient, my boy; and Bruff only earns a pound a week. What very fine potatoes!”“You will come on, won’t you, uncle? I’m sure I know what’s the matter with him.”“Do you?” said the doctor, turning up another fine root of potatoes. “Without seeing him?”“Yes, uncle;” and he related what he had done on the previous afternoon.“Indeed,” said the doctor, growing interested. “But you ought to know a chanterelle if you saw one. Are you sure what you gave Mrs Bruff were right?”“Quite, uncle; I am certain.”“Dear me! But they are reckoned to be perfectly wholesome food. I don’t understand it. There, pick up the potatoes, and let’s cut the cauliflowers. I’ll go and see what’s wrong.”Five minutes after the basket was handed in to Martha; and then the doctor washed his hands, changed his hat, and signified to Aunt Hannah where they were going.“That’s right, my dear, I thought you would,” said the old lady, beaming. “Going too, Vane, my dear?”“Yes, aunt.”“That’s right. I hope you will find him better.”Vane hoped so, too, in his heart, as he walked with his uncle to the gardener’s cottage, conjuring up all kinds of suffering, and wondering whether the man had been ill all the night; and, to make matters worse, a deep groan came from the open bedroom window as they approached.Vane looked at his uncle in horror.“Good sign, my boy,” said the doctor cheerfully. “Not very bad, or he would not have made that noise. Well, Mrs Bruff,” he continued, as the woman appeared to meet them at the door, “so Ebenezer is unwell?”“Oh, yes, sir, dreadful. He was took badly about two o’clock, and he has been so queer ever since.”“Dear me,” said the doctor. “Do you know what has caused it?”“Yes, sir,” said the woman, beginning to sob; “he says it’s those nasty toadstools Master Vane brought, and gave me to cook for his tea. Ah, Master Vane, you shouldn’t have played us such a trick.”Vane looked appealingly at his uncle, who gave him a reassuring nod.“You cooked them then?” said the doctor.“Oh, yes, sir, and we had them for tea, and the nasty things were so nice that we never thought there could be anything wrong.”“What time do you say your husband was taken ill?”“About two o’clock, sir.”“And what time were you taken ill?”“Me, sir?” said the woman staring. “I haven’t been ill.”“Ah! You did not eat any of the—er—toadstools then?”“Yes, sir, I did, as many as Ebenezer.”“Humph! What time did your husband come home last night?”“I don’t know, sir, I was asleep. But I tell you it was about two when he woke me up, and said he was so bad.”“Take me upstairs,” said the doctor shortly; and he followed the woman up to her husband’s room, leaving Vane alone with a sinking heart, and wishing that he had not ventured to give the chanterelles to the gardener’s wife.He could not sit down but walked about, listening to the steps and murmur of voices overhead, meaning to give up all experiments in edible fungi for the future, and ready to jump as he heard the doctor’s heavy step again crossing the room, and then descending the stairs, followed by Bruff’s wife.“Do you think him very bad, sir?” she faltered.“Oh, yes,” was the cheerful reply; “he has about as splitting a headache as a poor wretch could have.”“But he will not die, sir?”“No, Mrs Bruff,” said the doctor. “Not just yet; but you may tell him, by-and-by, when you get him downstairs, feeling penitent and miserable, that, if he does not leave off going to the Chequers, he’ll have to leave off coming to the Little Manor.”“Why, sir, you don’t think that?” faltered the woman.“No, I do not think, because I am quite sure, Mrs Bruff. He was not hurt by your cookery, but by what he took afterward. You understand?”“Oh, sir!”“Come along, Vane. Good-morning, Mrs Bruff,” said the doctor, loud enough for his voice to be heard upstairs.“I am only too glad to come and help when any one is ill; but I don’t like coming upon a fool’s errand.”The doctor walked out into the road, looking very stern and leaving the gardener’s wife in tears, but he turned to Vane with a smile before they had gone far.“Then you don’t think it was the fungi, uncle?” said the lad, eagerly.“Yes, I do, boy, the produce of something connected with yeast fungi; not your chanterelles.”Vane felt as if a load had been lifted off his conscience.“Very tiresome, too,” said the doctor, “for I wanted to have a chat with Bruff to-day about that greenhouse flue. He says it is quite useless, for the smoke and sulphur get out into the house and kill the plants. Now then, sir, you are such a genius at inventing, why can’t you contrive the way to heat the greenhouse without causing me so much expense in the way of fuel, eh? I mean the idea you talked about before. I told Mr Syme it was to be done.”Vane was not ready with an answer to that question, and he set himself to think it out, just as they encountered the gipsy vans again, and the two lads driving the lame pony, at the sight of which the doctor frowned, and muttered something about the police, while the lads favoured Vane with a peculiar look.
“Not going up to the rectory?” said the Doctor, next morning.
“No, uncle,” said Vane, looking up from a book he was reading. “Joseph came with a note, before breakfast, to say that the rector was going over to Lincoln to-day, and that he hoped I would do a little private study at home.”
“Then don’t, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah. “You read and study too much. Get the others to go out with you for some excursion.”
Vane looked at her in a troubled way.
“He was going to excursion into the workshop. Eh, boy?” said the doctor.
“Yes, uncle, I did mean to.”
“No, no, no, my dear; get some fresh air while it’s fine. Yes, Eliza.”
“If you please, ma’am, cook says may she speak to you.”
“Yes; send her in,” was the reply; and directly after Martha appeared, giving the last touches to secure the clean apron she had put on between kitchen and breakfast-room.
“Cook’s cross,” said Vane to himself, as his aunt looked up with—
“Well, cook?”
“Sorry to trouble you, ma’am, but I want to know what I’m to do about my vegetables this morning.”
“Cook them,” said Vane to himself, and then he repeated the words aloud, and added, “not like you did my poor chanterelles.”
“Hush, Vane, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah, as the cook turned upon him fiercely. “I do not understand what you mean, Martha.”
“I mean, ma’am,” said the cook, jerkily, but keeping her eyes fixed upon Vane, “that Bruff sent word as he’s too ill to come this morning; and I can’t be expected to go down gardens, digging potatoes and cutting cauliflowers for dinner. It isn’t my place.”
“No, no, certainly not, Martha,” said Aunt Hannah. “Dear me! I am sorry Bruff is so ill. He was quite well yesterday.”
“But I want the vegetables now, ma’am.”
“And you shall have them, Martha,” said the doctor, rising, bowing, and opening the door for the cook to pass out, which she did, looking wondering and abashed at her master, as if not understanding what he meant.
“Dear me!” continued the doctor, rubbing one ear, and apostrophising his nephew, “what a strange world this is. Now, by and by, Vane, that woman will leave here to marry and exist upon some working man’s income, and never trouble herself for a moment about whether it’s her place to go down the garden ‘to cut a cabbage to make an apple-pie,’ as the poet said—or somebody else; but be only too glad to feel that there is a cabbage in the garden to cut, and a potato to dig. Vane, my boy, will you come and hold the basket?”
“No, uncle; I’ll soon dig a few, and cut the cauliflower,” said Vane, hastily; and he hurried toward the door.
“I’ll go with you, my boy,” said the doctor; and he went out with his nephew, who was in a state of wondering doubt, respecting the gardener’s illness. For suppose that chanterelles were, after all, not good to eat, and he had poisoned the man!
“Come along, Vane. We can find a basket and fork in the tool-house.”
The doctor took down his straw hat, and led the way down the garden, looking very happy and contented, but extremely unlike the Savile Row physician, whom patients were eager to consult only a few years before.
Then the tool-house was reached, and he shouldered a four-pronged fork, and Vane took the basket; the row of red kidney potatoes was selected, and the doctor began to dig and turn up a root of fine, well-ripened tubers.
“Work that is the most ancient under the sun, Vane, my boy,” said the old gentleman, smiling. “Pick them up.”
But Vane did not stir. He stood, basket in hand, thinking; and the more he thought the more uneasy he grew.
“Ready? Pick them up!” cried the doctor. “What are you thinking about, eh?”
Vane gave a jump.
“I beg your pardon, uncle, I was thinking.”
“I know that. What about?”
“Bruff being ill.”
“Hum! Yes,” said the doctor, lifting the fork to remove a potato which he had accidentally impaled. “I think I know what’s the matter with Master Bruff.”
“So do I, uncle. Will you come on and see him, as soon as we have got enough vegetables?”
“Physician’s fee is rather high for visiting a patient, my boy; and Bruff only earns a pound a week. What very fine potatoes!”
“You will come on, won’t you, uncle? I’m sure I know what’s the matter with him.”
“Do you?” said the doctor, turning up another fine root of potatoes. “Without seeing him?”
“Yes, uncle;” and he related what he had done on the previous afternoon.
“Indeed,” said the doctor, growing interested. “But you ought to know a chanterelle if you saw one. Are you sure what you gave Mrs Bruff were right?”
“Quite, uncle; I am certain.”
“Dear me! But they are reckoned to be perfectly wholesome food. I don’t understand it. There, pick up the potatoes, and let’s cut the cauliflowers. I’ll go and see what’s wrong.”
Five minutes after the basket was handed in to Martha; and then the doctor washed his hands, changed his hat, and signified to Aunt Hannah where they were going.
“That’s right, my dear, I thought you would,” said the old lady, beaming. “Going too, Vane, my dear?”
“Yes, aunt.”
“That’s right. I hope you will find him better.”
Vane hoped so, too, in his heart, as he walked with his uncle to the gardener’s cottage, conjuring up all kinds of suffering, and wondering whether the man had been ill all the night; and, to make matters worse, a deep groan came from the open bedroom window as they approached.
Vane looked at his uncle in horror.
“Good sign, my boy,” said the doctor cheerfully. “Not very bad, or he would not have made that noise. Well, Mrs Bruff,” he continued, as the woman appeared to meet them at the door, “so Ebenezer is unwell?”
“Oh, yes, sir, dreadful. He was took badly about two o’clock, and he has been so queer ever since.”
“Dear me,” said the doctor. “Do you know what has caused it?”
“Yes, sir,” said the woman, beginning to sob; “he says it’s those nasty toadstools Master Vane brought, and gave me to cook for his tea. Ah, Master Vane, you shouldn’t have played us such a trick.”
Vane looked appealingly at his uncle, who gave him a reassuring nod.
“You cooked them then?” said the doctor.
“Oh, yes, sir, and we had them for tea, and the nasty things were so nice that we never thought there could be anything wrong.”
“What time do you say your husband was taken ill?”
“About two o’clock, sir.”
“And what time were you taken ill?”
“Me, sir?” said the woman staring. “I haven’t been ill.”
“Ah! You did not eat any of the—er—toadstools then?”
“Yes, sir, I did, as many as Ebenezer.”
“Humph! What time did your husband come home last night?”
“I don’t know, sir, I was asleep. But I tell you it was about two when he woke me up, and said he was so bad.”
“Take me upstairs,” said the doctor shortly; and he followed the woman up to her husband’s room, leaving Vane alone with a sinking heart, and wishing that he had not ventured to give the chanterelles to the gardener’s wife.
He could not sit down but walked about, listening to the steps and murmur of voices overhead, meaning to give up all experiments in edible fungi for the future, and ready to jump as he heard the doctor’s heavy step again crossing the room, and then descending the stairs, followed by Bruff’s wife.
“Do you think him very bad, sir?” she faltered.
“Oh, yes,” was the cheerful reply; “he has about as splitting a headache as a poor wretch could have.”
“But he will not die, sir?”
“No, Mrs Bruff,” said the doctor. “Not just yet; but you may tell him, by-and-by, when you get him downstairs, feeling penitent and miserable, that, if he does not leave off going to the Chequers, he’ll have to leave off coming to the Little Manor.”
“Why, sir, you don’t think that?” faltered the woman.
“No, I do not think, because I am quite sure, Mrs Bruff. He was not hurt by your cookery, but by what he took afterward. You understand?”
“Oh, sir!”
“Come along, Vane. Good-morning, Mrs Bruff,” said the doctor, loud enough for his voice to be heard upstairs.
“I am only too glad to come and help when any one is ill; but I don’t like coming upon a fool’s errand.”
The doctor walked out into the road, looking very stern and leaving the gardener’s wife in tears, but he turned to Vane with a smile before they had gone far.
“Then you don’t think it was the fungi, uncle?” said the lad, eagerly.
“Yes, I do, boy, the produce of something connected with yeast fungi; not your chanterelles.”
Vane felt as if a load had been lifted off his conscience.
“Very tiresome, too,” said the doctor, “for I wanted to have a chat with Bruff to-day about that greenhouse flue. He says it is quite useless, for the smoke and sulphur get out into the house and kill the plants. Now then, sir, you are such a genius at inventing, why can’t you contrive the way to heat the greenhouse without causing me so much expense in the way of fuel, eh? I mean the idea you talked about before. I told Mr Syme it was to be done.”
Vane was not ready with an answer to that question, and he set himself to think it out, just as they encountered the gipsy vans again, and the two lads driving the lame pony, at the sight of which the doctor frowned, and muttered something about the police, while the lads favoured Vane with a peculiar look.
Chapter Nine.How to Heat the Greenhouse.“Vane, my boy, you are like my old friend Deering,” said the doctor one morning.“Am I, uncle?” said the lad. “I’ll have a good look at him if ever I see him.”The doctor laughed.“I mean he is one of those men who are always trying to invent something fresh; he is a perfect boon to the patent agents.”Vane looked puzzled.“You don’t understand the allusion?”“No, uncle, I suppose it’s something to do with my being fond of—”“Riding hobbies,” said the doctor.“Oh, I don’t want to ride hobbies, uncle,” said Vane, in rather an ill-used tone. “I only like to be doing things that seem as if they would be useful.”“And quite right, too, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah, “only I do wish you wouldn’t make quite such a mess as you do sometimes.”“Yes, it’s quite right, mess or no mess,” said the doctor pleasantly. “I’m glad to see you busy over something or another, even if it does not always answer. Better than wasting your time or getting into mischief.”“But they always would answer, uncle,” said Vane, rubbing one ear in a vexed fashion—“that is, if I could get them quite right.”“Ah, yes, if you could get them quite right. Well, what about the greenhouse? You know I was telling the parson the other day about your plans about the kitchen-boiler and hot-water.”Vane looked for a moment as if he had received too severe a check to care to renew the subject on which he had been talking; but his uncle looked so pleasant and tolerant of his plans that the boy fired up.“Well, it was like this, uncle: you say it is a great nuisance for any one to have to go out and see to the fire on wet, cold, dark nights.”“So it is, boy. Any one will grant that.”“Yes, uncle, and that’s what I want to prevent.”“Well, how?”“Stop a moment,” said Vane. “I’ve been thinking about this a good deal more since you said you must send for the bricklayer.”“Well, well,” said the doctor, “let’s hear.”“I expect you’ll laugh at me,” said Vane; “but I’ve been trying somehow to get to the bottom of it all.”“Of course; that’s the right way,” said the doctor; and Aunt Hannah gave an approving nod.“Well,” said Vane; “it seems to me that one fire ought to do all the work.”“So it does, my boy,” said the doctor; “but it’s a devouring sort of monster and eats up a great deal of coal.”“But I mean one fire ought to do for both the kitchen and the greenhouse, too.”“What, would you have Martha’s grate in among the flowers, and let her roast and fry there? That wouldn’t do.”“No, no, uncle. Let the greenhouse be heated with hot-water pipes.”“Well?”“And connect them, as I said before, with the kitchen-boiler.”“As I told Syme,” said the doctor.“No, no, no,” cried Aunt Hannah, very decisively. “I’m quite sure that wouldn’t do; and I’m certain that Martha would not approve of it.”“Humph!” ejaculated the doctor. “I’m afraid our Martha does not approve of doing anything but what she likes. But that would not do, boy. I told Syme so, but he was hot over it—boiler-hot.”“Well, then, let it be by means of a small boiler fitted somewhere at the side of the kitchen range, uncle; then the one fire will do everything; and, with the exception of a little cost at first, the greenhouse will always afterwards be heated for nothing.”“Come, I like that idea,” said the doctor, rubbing his nose. “There’s something in that, eh, my dear? Sounds well.”“Yes,” said Aunt Hannah, “it sounds very well, but so do all Vane’s plans; and, though I like to encourage him so long as he does not make too much mess, I must say that they seldom do anything else but sound.”“Oh, aunt!”“Well, it’s quite true, my dear, and you know it. I could name a dozen things.”“No, no, don’t name ’em, aunt,” said Vane hurriedly. “I know I have made some mistakes; but then everyone does who tries to invent.”“Then why not let things be as they are, my dear. I’m sure the old corkscrew was better to take out corks than the thing you made.”“It would have been beautiful, aunt,” cried Vane, “if—”“It hadn’t broken so many bottles,” said the doctor with a humorous look in his eyes. “It wouldn’t have mattered if it had been aunt’s cowslip wine, but it always chose my best port and sherry.”“And then there was that churn thing,” continued Aunt Hannah.“Oh, come, aunt, that was a success.”“What, a thing that sent all the cream flying out over Martha when she turned the handle! No, my dear, no.”“But you will not see, aunt, that it was because the thing was not properly made.”“Of course I do, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah. “That’s what I say.”“No, no, aunt, I mean made by a regular manufacturer, with tight lids. That was only a home-made one for an experiment.”“Yes, I know it was, my dear; and I recollect what a rage Martha was in with the thing. I believe that if I had insisted upon her going on using that thing, she would have left.”“I wish you wouldn’t keep on calling it a thing, aunt,” said Vane, in an ill-used tone; “it was a patent churn.”“Never mind, boy,” said the doctor, “yours is the fate of all inventors. People want a deal of persuading to use new contrivances; they always prefer to stick to the old ones.”“Well, my dear, and very reasonably, too,” said Aunt Hannah. “You know I like to encourage Vane, but I cannot help thinking sometimes that he is too fond of useless schemes.”“Not useless, aunt.”“Well, then, schemes; and that it would be better if he kept more to his Latin and Greek and mathematics with Mr Syme, and joining the other pupils in their sports.”“Oh, he works hard enough at his studies,” said the doctor.“I’m very glad to hear you say so, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah; “and as to the rather unkind remark you made about the churn—”“No, no, my dear, don’t misunderstand me. I meant that people generally prefer to keep to the old-fashioned ways of doing things.”“But, my dear,” retorted Aunt Hannah, who had been put out that morning by rebellious acts on the part of Martha, “you are as bad as anyone. See how you threw away Vane’s pen-holder that he invented, and in quite a passion, too. I did think there was something in that, for it is very tiresome to have to keep on dipping your pen in the ink when you have a long letter to write.”“Oh, aunty, don’t bring up that,” said Vane, reproachfully.But it was too late.“Hang the thing!” cried the doctor, with a look of annoyance and perplexity on his countenance; “that was enough to put anyone out of temper. The idea was right enough, drawing the holder up full like a syringe, but then you couldn’t use it for fear of pressing it by accident, and squirting the ink all over your paper, or on to your clothes. ’Member my new shepherd’s-plaid trousers, Vane?”“Yes, uncle; it was very unfortunate. You didn’t quite know how to manage the holder. It wanted studying.”“Studying, boy! Who’s going to learn to study a pen-holder. Goose-quill’s good enough for me. They don’t want study.”Vane rubbed his ear, and looked furtively from one to the other, as Aunt Hannah rose, and put away her work.“No, my dear,” she said, rather decisively; “I’m quite sure that Martha would never approve of anyone meddling with her kitchen-boiler.”She left the room, and Vane sat staring at his uncle, who returned his gaze with droll perplexity in his eyes.“Aunt doesn’t take to it, boy,” said the doctor.“No, uncle, and I had worked it out so thoroughly on paper,” cried Vane. “I’m sure it would have been a great success. You see you couldn’t do it anywhere, but you could here, because our greenhouse is all against the kitchen wall. You know how well that rose grows because it feels the heat from the fireplace through the bricks?”“Got your plans—sketches—papers?” said the doctor.“Yes, uncle,” cried the boy, eagerly, taking some sheets of note-paper from his breast. “You can see it all here. This is where the pipe would come out of the top of the boiler, and run all round three sides of the house, and go back again and into the boiler, down at the bottom.”“And would that be enough to heat the greenhouse?”“Plenty, uncle. I’ve worked it all out, and got a circular from London, and I can tell you exactly all it will cost—except the bricklayers’ work, and that can’t be much.”“Can’t it?” cried the doctor, laughing. “Let me tell you it just can be a very great deal. I know it of old. There’s a game some people are very fond of playing at, Vane. It’s called bricks and mortar. Don’t you ever play at it much; it costs a good deal of money.”“Oh, but this couldn’t cost above a pound or two.”“Humph! No. Not so much as building a new flue, of course. But, look here: how about cold, frosty nights? The kitchen-fire goes out when Martha is off to bed.”“It does now, uncle,” said the lad; “but it mustn’t when we want to heat the hot-water pipes.”“But that would mean keeping up the fire all night.”“Well, you would do that if you had a stove and flue, uncle.”“Humph, yes.”“And, in this case, the fire on cold winters’ nights would be indoors, and help to warm the house.”“So it would,” said the doctor, who went on examining the papers very thoughtfully.“The pipes would be nicer and neater, too, than the brick flue, uncle.”“True, boy,” said the doctor, still examining the plans very attentively. “But, look here. Are you pretty sure that this hot-water would run all along the pipes?”“Quite, uncle, and I did so hope you would let me do it, if only to show old Bruff that he does not know everything.”“But you don’t expect me to put my hand in my pocket and pay pounds on purpose to gratify your vanity, boy—not really?” said the doctor.“No, uncle,” cried Vane; “it’s only because I want to succeed.”“Ah, well, I’ll think it over,” said the doctor; and with that promise the boy had to rest satisfied.
“Vane, my boy, you are like my old friend Deering,” said the doctor one morning.
“Am I, uncle?” said the lad. “I’ll have a good look at him if ever I see him.”
The doctor laughed.
“I mean he is one of those men who are always trying to invent something fresh; he is a perfect boon to the patent agents.”
Vane looked puzzled.
“You don’t understand the allusion?”
“No, uncle, I suppose it’s something to do with my being fond of—”
“Riding hobbies,” said the doctor.
“Oh, I don’t want to ride hobbies, uncle,” said Vane, in rather an ill-used tone. “I only like to be doing things that seem as if they would be useful.”
“And quite right, too, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah, “only I do wish you wouldn’t make quite such a mess as you do sometimes.”
“Yes, it’s quite right, mess or no mess,” said the doctor pleasantly. “I’m glad to see you busy over something or another, even if it does not always answer. Better than wasting your time or getting into mischief.”
“But they always would answer, uncle,” said Vane, rubbing one ear in a vexed fashion—“that is, if I could get them quite right.”
“Ah, yes, if you could get them quite right. Well, what about the greenhouse? You know I was telling the parson the other day about your plans about the kitchen-boiler and hot-water.”
Vane looked for a moment as if he had received too severe a check to care to renew the subject on which he had been talking; but his uncle looked so pleasant and tolerant of his plans that the boy fired up.
“Well, it was like this, uncle: you say it is a great nuisance for any one to have to go out and see to the fire on wet, cold, dark nights.”
“So it is, boy. Any one will grant that.”
“Yes, uncle, and that’s what I want to prevent.”
“Well, how?”
“Stop a moment,” said Vane. “I’ve been thinking about this a good deal more since you said you must send for the bricklayer.”
“Well, well,” said the doctor, “let’s hear.”
“I expect you’ll laugh at me,” said Vane; “but I’ve been trying somehow to get to the bottom of it all.”
“Of course; that’s the right way,” said the doctor; and Aunt Hannah gave an approving nod.
“Well,” said Vane; “it seems to me that one fire ought to do all the work.”
“So it does, my boy,” said the doctor; “but it’s a devouring sort of monster and eats up a great deal of coal.”
“But I mean one fire ought to do for both the kitchen and the greenhouse, too.”
“What, would you have Martha’s grate in among the flowers, and let her roast and fry there? That wouldn’t do.”
“No, no, uncle. Let the greenhouse be heated with hot-water pipes.”
“Well?”
“And connect them, as I said before, with the kitchen-boiler.”
“As I told Syme,” said the doctor.
“No, no, no,” cried Aunt Hannah, very decisively. “I’m quite sure that wouldn’t do; and I’m certain that Martha would not approve of it.”
“Humph!” ejaculated the doctor. “I’m afraid our Martha does not approve of doing anything but what she likes. But that would not do, boy. I told Syme so, but he was hot over it—boiler-hot.”
“Well, then, let it be by means of a small boiler fitted somewhere at the side of the kitchen range, uncle; then the one fire will do everything; and, with the exception of a little cost at first, the greenhouse will always afterwards be heated for nothing.”
“Come, I like that idea,” said the doctor, rubbing his nose. “There’s something in that, eh, my dear? Sounds well.”
“Yes,” said Aunt Hannah, “it sounds very well, but so do all Vane’s plans; and, though I like to encourage him so long as he does not make too much mess, I must say that they seldom do anything else but sound.”
“Oh, aunt!”
“Well, it’s quite true, my dear, and you know it. I could name a dozen things.”
“No, no, don’t name ’em, aunt,” said Vane hurriedly. “I know I have made some mistakes; but then everyone does who tries to invent.”
“Then why not let things be as they are, my dear. I’m sure the old corkscrew was better to take out corks than the thing you made.”
“It would have been beautiful, aunt,” cried Vane, “if—”
“It hadn’t broken so many bottles,” said the doctor with a humorous look in his eyes. “It wouldn’t have mattered if it had been aunt’s cowslip wine, but it always chose my best port and sherry.”
“And then there was that churn thing,” continued Aunt Hannah.
“Oh, come, aunt, that was a success.”
“What, a thing that sent all the cream flying out over Martha when she turned the handle! No, my dear, no.”
“But you will not see, aunt, that it was because the thing was not properly made.”
“Of course I do, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah. “That’s what I say.”
“No, no, aunt, I mean made by a regular manufacturer, with tight lids. That was only a home-made one for an experiment.”
“Yes, I know it was, my dear; and I recollect what a rage Martha was in with the thing. I believe that if I had insisted upon her going on using that thing, she would have left.”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep on calling it a thing, aunt,” said Vane, in an ill-used tone; “it was a patent churn.”
“Never mind, boy,” said the doctor, “yours is the fate of all inventors. People want a deal of persuading to use new contrivances; they always prefer to stick to the old ones.”
“Well, my dear, and very reasonably, too,” said Aunt Hannah. “You know I like to encourage Vane, but I cannot help thinking sometimes that he is too fond of useless schemes.”
“Not useless, aunt.”
“Well, then, schemes; and that it would be better if he kept more to his Latin and Greek and mathematics with Mr Syme, and joining the other pupils in their sports.”
“Oh, he works hard enough at his studies,” said the doctor.
“I’m very glad to hear you say so, my dear,” said Aunt Hannah; “and as to the rather unkind remark you made about the churn—”
“No, no, my dear, don’t misunderstand me. I meant that people generally prefer to keep to the old-fashioned ways of doing things.”
“But, my dear,” retorted Aunt Hannah, who had been put out that morning by rebellious acts on the part of Martha, “you are as bad as anyone. See how you threw away Vane’s pen-holder that he invented, and in quite a passion, too. I did think there was something in that, for it is very tiresome to have to keep on dipping your pen in the ink when you have a long letter to write.”
“Oh, aunty, don’t bring up that,” said Vane, reproachfully.
But it was too late.
“Hang the thing!” cried the doctor, with a look of annoyance and perplexity on his countenance; “that was enough to put anyone out of temper. The idea was right enough, drawing the holder up full like a syringe, but then you couldn’t use it for fear of pressing it by accident, and squirting the ink all over your paper, or on to your clothes. ’Member my new shepherd’s-plaid trousers, Vane?”
“Yes, uncle; it was very unfortunate. You didn’t quite know how to manage the holder. It wanted studying.”
“Studying, boy! Who’s going to learn to study a pen-holder. Goose-quill’s good enough for me. They don’t want study.”
Vane rubbed his ear, and looked furtively from one to the other, as Aunt Hannah rose, and put away her work.
“No, my dear,” she said, rather decisively; “I’m quite sure that Martha would never approve of anyone meddling with her kitchen-boiler.”
She left the room, and Vane sat staring at his uncle, who returned his gaze with droll perplexity in his eyes.
“Aunt doesn’t take to it, boy,” said the doctor.
“No, uncle, and I had worked it out so thoroughly on paper,” cried Vane. “I’m sure it would have been a great success. You see you couldn’t do it anywhere, but you could here, because our greenhouse is all against the kitchen wall. You know how well that rose grows because it feels the heat from the fireplace through the bricks?”
“Got your plans—sketches—papers?” said the doctor.
“Yes, uncle,” cried the boy, eagerly, taking some sheets of note-paper from his breast. “You can see it all here. This is where the pipe would come out of the top of the boiler, and run all round three sides of the house, and go back again and into the boiler, down at the bottom.”
“And would that be enough to heat the greenhouse?”
“Plenty, uncle. I’ve worked it all out, and got a circular from London, and I can tell you exactly all it will cost—except the bricklayers’ work, and that can’t be much.”
“Can’t it?” cried the doctor, laughing. “Let me tell you it just can be a very great deal. I know it of old. There’s a game some people are very fond of playing at, Vane. It’s called bricks and mortar. Don’t you ever play at it much; it costs a good deal of money.”
“Oh, but this couldn’t cost above a pound or two.”
“Humph! No. Not so much as building a new flue, of course. But, look here: how about cold, frosty nights? The kitchen-fire goes out when Martha is off to bed.”
“It does now, uncle,” said the lad; “but it mustn’t when we want to heat the hot-water pipes.”
“But that would mean keeping up the fire all night.”
“Well, you would do that if you had a stove and flue, uncle.”
“Humph, yes.”
“And, in this case, the fire on cold winters’ nights would be indoors, and help to warm the house.”
“So it would,” said the doctor, who went on examining the papers very thoughtfully.
“The pipes would be nicer and neater, too, than the brick flue, uncle.”
“True, boy,” said the doctor, still examining the plans very attentively. “But, look here. Are you pretty sure that this hot-water would run all along the pipes?”
“Quite, uncle, and I did so hope you would let me do it, if only to show old Bruff that he does not know everything.”
“But you don’t expect me to put my hand in my pocket and pay pounds on purpose to gratify your vanity, boy—not really?” said the doctor.
“No, uncle,” cried Vane; “it’s only because I want to succeed.”
“Ah, well, I’ll think it over,” said the doctor; and with that promise the boy had to rest satisfied.
Chapter Ten.Vane’s Workshop.But Vane went at once to the kitchen with the intention of making some business-like measurements of the opening about the range, and to see where a boiler could best be placed. A glance within was sufficient. Martha was busy about the very spot; and Vane turned back, making up his mind to defer his visit till midnight, when the place would be solitary, and the fire out.There was the greenhouse, though; and, fetching a rule, he went in there, and began measuring the walls once more, to arrive at the exact length of piping required, when he became conscious of a shadow cast from the open door; and, looking up, there stood Bruff, with a grin upon his face—a look so provocative that Vane turned upon him fiercely.“Well, what are you laughing at?” he cried.“You, Mester.”“Why?”“I was thinking as you ought to hev been a bricklayer or carpenter, sir, instead of a scollard, and going up to rectory. Measuring for that there noo-fangle notion of yours?”“Yes, I am,” cried Vane; “and what then?”“Oh, nowt, sir, nowt, only it wean’t do. Only throwing away money.”“How do you know, Bruff?”“How do I know, sir? Why, arn’t I been a gardener ever since I was born amost, seeing as my father and granfa’ was gardeners afore me. You tak’ my advice, sir, as one as knows. There’s only two ways o’ heating places, and one’swi’ a proper fireplace an’ a flue, and t’other’s varmentin wi’ hot manner.”“Varmentin with hot manner, as you call it. Why, don’t they heat the vineries at Tremby Court with hot-water?”“I’ve heered you say so, sir, but I niver see it. Tak’ my advice, sir, and don’t you meddle with things as you don’t understand. Remember them taters?”“Oh, yes, I remember the potatoes, Bruff; and I daresay, if the truth was known, you cut all the eyes out, instead of leaving the strongest, as I told you.”“I don’t want no one to teach me my trade,” said the man, sulkily; and he shuffled away, leaving Vane wondering why he took so much trouble, only to meet with rebuffs from nearly everyone.“I might just as well be fishing, or playing cricket, or lying on my back in the sun, like old Distin does. Nobody seems to understand me.”He was standing just inside the door, moodily tapping the side-post with the rule, when he was startled by a step on the gravel, and, looking up sharply, he found himself face to face with a little, keen, dark, well-dressed man, who had entered the gate, seen him standing in the greenhouse, and walked across the lawn, whose mossy grass had silenced his footsteps till he reached the path.“Morning,” he said. “Doctor at home?”“Yes,” replied Vane, looking at the stranger searchingly, and wondering whether he was a visitor whom his uncle would be glad to see.The stranger was looking searchingly at him, and he spoke at once:—“You are the nephew, I suppose?”Vane looked at him wonderingly.“Yes, I thought so. Father and mother dead, and the doctor bringing you up. Lucky fellow! Here, what does this mean?” and he pointed to the rule.“I was measuring,” said Vane, colouring.“Ah! Thought you were to be a clergyman or a doctor. Going to be a carpenter?”“No,” replied Vane sharply, and feeling full of resentment at being questioned so by a stranger. “I was measuring the walls.”“What for?” said the stranger, stepping into the greenhouse and making the lad draw back.“Well, if you must know, sir—”“No, I see. Old flue worn-out;—measuring for a new one.”Vane shook his head, and, in spite of himself, began to speak out freely, the stranger seeming to draw him.“No; I was thinking of hot-water pipes.”“Good! Modern and better. Always go in for improvements. Use large ones.”“Do you understand heating with hot-water, sir?”“A little,” said the stranger, smiling. “Where are you going to make your furnace?”“I wasn’t going to make one.”“Going to do it with cold hot-water then?” said the stranger, smiling again.“No, of course not. The kitchen-fireplace is through there,” said Vane, pointing with his rule, “and I want to put a boiler in, so that the one fire will answer both purposes.”“Good! Excellent!” said the stranger sharply. “Your own idea?”“Yes, sir.”“Do it, then, as soon as you can—before the winter. Now take me in to your uncle.”Vane looked at him again, and now with quite a friendly feeling for the man who could sympathise with his plans.He led the stranger to the front door, and was about to ask him his name, when the doctor came out of his little study.“Ah, Deering,” he said quietly, “how are you? Who’d have thought of seeing you.”“Not you, I suppose,” said the visitor quietly. “I was at Lincoln on business, and thought I would come round your way as I went back to town.”“Glad to see you, man: come in. Vane, lad, find your aunt, and tell her Mr Deering is here.”“Can’t see that I’m much like him,” said Vane to himself, as he went in search of his aunt, and saw her coming downstairs.“Here’s Mr Deering, aunt,” he said, “and uncle wants you.”“Oh, dear me!” cried Aunt Hannah, looking troubled, and beginning to arrange her collar and cuffs.“Why did uncle say that I was like Mr Deering, aunt?” whispered Vane. “I’m not a bit. He’s dark and I’m fair.”“He meant like him in his ways, my dear: always dreaming about new inventions, and making fortunes out of nothing. I do hope your uncle will not listen to any of his wild ideas.”This description of the visitor excited Vane’s curiosity. One who approved of his plans respecting the heating of the greenhouse was worthy of respect, and Vane was in no way dissatisfied to hear that Mr Deering was quite ready to accept the doctor’s hospitality for a day or two.That afternoon, as Aunt Hannah did not show the least disposition to leave the doctor and his guest alone, the latter rose and looked at Vane.“I should like a walk,” he said. “Suppose you take me round the garden, squire.”Vane followed him out eagerly; and as soon as they were in the garden, the visitor said quickly:—“Got a workshop?”Vane flushed a little.“Only a bit of a shed,” he said. “It was meant to be a cow-house, but uncle lets me have it to amuse myself in.”“Show it to me,” said the visitor.“Wouldn’t you rather come round the grounds to have a look at uncle’s fruit?” said Vane hurriedly.“No. Why do you want to keep me out of your den?”“Well, it’s so untidy.”“Workshops generally are. Some other reason.”“I have such a lot of failures,” said Vane hurriedly.“Blunders and mistakes, I suppose, in things you have tried to make?”“Yes.”“Show me.”Vane would far rather have led their visitor in another direction, but there was a masterful decided way about him that was not to be denied, and the lad led him into the large shed which had been floored with boards and lined, so as to turn it into quite a respectable workshop, in which were, beside a great heavy deal table in the centre, a carpenter’s bench, and a turning lathe, while nails were knocked in everywhere, shelves ran from end to end, and the place presented to the eye about as strange a confusion of odds and ends as could have been seen out of a museum.Vane looked at the visitor as he threw open the door, expecting to hear a derisive burst of laughter, but he stepped in quietly enough, and began to take up and handle the various objects which took his attention, making remarks the while.“You should not leave your tools lying about like this: the edges get dulled, and sometimes they grow rusty. Haven’t you a tool-chest?”“There is uncle’s old one,” said Vane.“Exactly. Then, why don’t you keep them in the drawers?—Humph! Galvanic battery!”“Yes; it was uncle’s.”“And he gives it to you to play with, eh?”Vane coloured again.“I was trying to perform some experiments with it.”“Oh, I see. Well, it’s a very good one; take care of it. Little chemistry, too, eh?”“Yes: uncle shows me sometimes how to perform experiments.”“But he does not show you how to be neat and orderly.”“Oh, this is only a place to amuse oneself in!” said Vane.“Exactly, but you can get ten times the amusement out of a shop where everything is in its place and there’s a place for everything. Now, suppose I wanted to perform some simple experiment, say, to show what convection is, with water, retort and spirit lamp?”“Convection?” said Vane, thoughtfully, as if he were searching in his mind for the meaning of a word he had forgotten.“Yes,” said the visitor, smiling. “Surely you know what convection is.”“I’ve forgotten,” said Vane, shaking his head. “I knew once.”“Then you have not forgotten. You’ve got it somewhere packed away. Head’s untidy, perhaps, as your laboratory.”“I know,” cried Vane—“convection: it has to do with water expanding and rising when it is hot and descending when it is cold.”“Of course it has,” said the visitor, laughing, “why you were lecturing me just now on the art of heating greenhouses by hot-water circulating through pipes; well, what makes it circulate?”“The heat.”“Of course, by the law of convection.”Vane rubbed one ear.“You had not thought of that?”“No.”“Ah, well, you will not forget it again. But, as I was saying—suppose I wanted to try and perform a simple experiment to prove, on a small scale, that the pipes you are designing would heat. I cannot see the things I want, and I’ll be bound to say you have them somewhere here.”“Oh, yes: I’ve got them all somewhere.”“Exactly. Take my advice, then, and be a little orderly. I don’t mean be a slave to order. You understand?”“Oh, yes,” said Vane, annoyed, but at the same time pleased, for he felt that the visitor’s remarks were just.“Humph! You have rather an inventive turn then, eh?”“Oh, no,” cried Vane, disclaiming so grand a term, “I only try to make a few things here sometimes on wet days.”“Pretty often, seemingly,” said the visitor, peering here and there. “Silk-winding, collecting. What’s this? Trying to make a steam engine?”“No, not exactly an engine; but I thought that perhaps I might make a little machine that would turn a wheel.”“And supply you with motive-power. Well, I will tell you at once that it would not.”“Why not?” said Vane, with a little more confidence, as he grew used to his companion’s abrupt ways.“Because you have gone the wrong way to work, groping along in the dark. I’ll be bound to say,” he continued, as he stood turning over the rough, clumsy contrivance upon which he had seized—a bit of mechanism which had cost the boy a good many of his shillings, and the blacksmith much time in filing and fitting in an extremely rough way—“that Newcomen and Watt and the other worthies of the steam engine’s early days hit upon exactly the same ideas. It is curious how men in different places, when trying to contrive some special thing, all start working in the same groove.”“Then you think that is all stupid and waste of time, sir?”“I did not say so. By no means. The bit of mechanism is of no use—never can be, but it shows me that you have the kind of brain that ought to fit you for an engineer, and the time you have spent over this has all been education. It will teach you one big lesson, my lad. When you try to invent anything again, no matter how simple, don’t begin at the very beginning, but seek out what has already been done, and begin where others have left off—making use of what is good in their work as a foundation for yours.”“Yes, I see now,” said Vane. “I shall not forget that.”Their visitor laughed.“Then you will be a very exceptional fellow, Vane Lee. But, there, I hope you will not forget. Humph!” he continued, looking round, “You have a capital lot of material here: machinery and toys. No, I will not call them toys, because these playthings are often the parents of very useful machines. What’s that—balloon?”“An attempt at one,” replied Vane.“Oh, then, you have been trying to solve the flying problem.”“Yes,” cried Vane excitedly; “have you?”“Yes, I have had my season of thought over it, my lad; and I cannot help thinking that it will some day be mastered or discovered by accident.”Vane’s lips parted, and he rested his elbows on the workbench, placed his chin in his hands, and gazed excitedly in his companion’s face.“And how do you think it will be done?”“Ah, that’s a difficult question to answer, boy. There is the problem to solve. All I say is, that if we have mastered the water and can contrive a machine that will swim like a fish—”“But we have not,” said Vane.“Indeed! Then what do you call an Atlantic liner, with the propeller in its tail?”“But that swims on the top of the water.”“Of course it does, because the people on board require air to breathe. Otherwise it could be made to swim beneath the water as a fish does, and at twenty miles an hour.”“Yes: I did not think of that.”“Well, as we have conquered the water to that extent, I do not see why we should not master the air.”“We can rise in balloons.”“Yes, but the balloon is clumsy and unmanageable. It will not do.”“What then, sir?”“That’s it, my boy, what then? It is easy to contrive a piece of mechanism with fans that will rise in the air, but when tried on a large scale, to be of any real service, I’m afraid it would fail.”“Then why not something to fly like a bird or a bat?” said Vane eagerly.“No; the power required to move the great flapping wings would be too weighty for it; and, besides, I always feel that there is a something in a bird or bat which enables it to make itself, bulk for bulk, the same weight as the atmosphere.”“But that seems impossible,” said Vane.“Seems, but it may not be so. Fifty years ago the man would have been laughed at who talked about sending a message to Australia and getting the answer back the same day, but we do not think much of it now. We would have thought of the Arabian Nights, and magicians, if a man had spoken to some one miles away, then listened to his tiny whisper answering back; but these telephonic communications are getting to be common business matters now. Why, Vane, when I was a little boy photography or light-writing was only being thought of: now people buy accurate likenesses of celebrities at a penny a piece on barrows in London streets.”Vane nodded.“To go back to the flying,” continued his companion, “I have thought and dreamed over it a great deal, but without result. I am satisfied, though, of one thing, and it is this, that some birds possess the power of gliding about in the air merely by the exercise of their will. I have watched great gulls floating along after a steamer at sea, by merely keeping their wings extended. At times they would give a slight flap or two, but not enough to affect their progress—it has appeared to me more to preserve their balance. And, again, in one of the great Alpine passes, I have watched the Swiss eagle—the Lammergeyer—rise from low down and begin sailing round and round, hardly beating with his wings, but always rising higher and higher in a vast spiral, till he was above the mountain-tops which walled in the sides of the valley. Then I have seen him sail right away. There is something more in nature connected with flight, which we have not yet discovered. I will not say that we never shall, for science is making mighty strides. There,” he added, merrily, “end of the lecture. Let’s go out in the open air.”Vane sighed.“I came from London, my boy, where all the air seems to be second-hand. Out here on this slope of the wolds, the breeze gives one life and strength. Take me for a walk, out in the woods, say, it will do me good, and make me forget the worries and cares of life.”“Are you inventing something?”Mr Deering gave the lad a sharp look, and nodded his head.“May I ask what, sir?”“No, my boy, you may not,” said Mr Deering, sadly. “Perhaps I am going straightway on the road to disappointment and failure; but I must go on now. Some day you will hear. Now take me where I can breathe. Oh, you happy young dog!” he cried merrily. “What a thing it is to be a boy!”“Is it?” said Vane, quietly.“Yes, it is. And you, sir, think to yourself, like the blind young mole you are, what a great thing it is to be a man. There, come out into the open air, and let’s look at nature; I get very weary sometimes of art.”Vane looked wonderingly at his new friend and did not feel so warmly toward him as he had a short time before, but this passed off when they were in the garden, where he admired the doctor’s fruit, waxed eloquent over the apples and pears, and ate one of the former with as much enjoyment as a boy.He was as merry as could be, too, and full of remarks as the doctor’s Jersey cow and French poultry were inspected, but at his best in the woods amongst the gnarled old oaks and great beeches, seeming never disposed to tire.That night Mr Deering had a very long consultation with the doctor; and Vane noted that his aunt looked very serious indeed, but she said nothing till after breakfast the next morning, when their visitor had left them for town, and evidently in the highest spirits.“Let that boy go on with his whims, doctor,” he said aloud, in Vane’s hearing. “He had better waste a little money in cranks and eccentrics than in toffee and hard-bake. Good-bye.”And he was gone as suddenly, so it seemed to Vane, as he had come.It was then that Vane heard his aunt say:“Well, my dear, I hope it is for the best. It will be a very serious thing for us if it should go wrong.”“Very,” said the doctor drily; and Vane wondered what it might be.
But Vane went at once to the kitchen with the intention of making some business-like measurements of the opening about the range, and to see where a boiler could best be placed. A glance within was sufficient. Martha was busy about the very spot; and Vane turned back, making up his mind to defer his visit till midnight, when the place would be solitary, and the fire out.
There was the greenhouse, though; and, fetching a rule, he went in there, and began measuring the walls once more, to arrive at the exact length of piping required, when he became conscious of a shadow cast from the open door; and, looking up, there stood Bruff, with a grin upon his face—a look so provocative that Vane turned upon him fiercely.
“Well, what are you laughing at?” he cried.
“You, Mester.”
“Why?”
“I was thinking as you ought to hev been a bricklayer or carpenter, sir, instead of a scollard, and going up to rectory. Measuring for that there noo-fangle notion of yours?”
“Yes, I am,” cried Vane; “and what then?”
“Oh, nowt, sir, nowt, only it wean’t do. Only throwing away money.”
“How do you know, Bruff?”
“How do I know, sir? Why, arn’t I been a gardener ever since I was born amost, seeing as my father and granfa’ was gardeners afore me. You tak’ my advice, sir, as one as knows. There’s only two ways o’ heating places, and one’swi’ a proper fireplace an’ a flue, and t’other’s varmentin wi’ hot manner.”
“Varmentin with hot manner, as you call it. Why, don’t they heat the vineries at Tremby Court with hot-water?”
“I’ve heered you say so, sir, but I niver see it. Tak’ my advice, sir, and don’t you meddle with things as you don’t understand. Remember them taters?”
“Oh, yes, I remember the potatoes, Bruff; and I daresay, if the truth was known, you cut all the eyes out, instead of leaving the strongest, as I told you.”
“I don’t want no one to teach me my trade,” said the man, sulkily; and he shuffled away, leaving Vane wondering why he took so much trouble, only to meet with rebuffs from nearly everyone.
“I might just as well be fishing, or playing cricket, or lying on my back in the sun, like old Distin does. Nobody seems to understand me.”
He was standing just inside the door, moodily tapping the side-post with the rule, when he was startled by a step on the gravel, and, looking up sharply, he found himself face to face with a little, keen, dark, well-dressed man, who had entered the gate, seen him standing in the greenhouse, and walked across the lawn, whose mossy grass had silenced his footsteps till he reached the path.
“Morning,” he said. “Doctor at home?”
“Yes,” replied Vane, looking at the stranger searchingly, and wondering whether he was a visitor whom his uncle would be glad to see.
The stranger was looking searchingly at him, and he spoke at once:—
“You are the nephew, I suppose?”
Vane looked at him wonderingly.
“Yes, I thought so. Father and mother dead, and the doctor bringing you up. Lucky fellow! Here, what does this mean?” and he pointed to the rule.
“I was measuring,” said Vane, colouring.
“Ah! Thought you were to be a clergyman or a doctor. Going to be a carpenter?”
“No,” replied Vane sharply, and feeling full of resentment at being questioned so by a stranger. “I was measuring the walls.”
“What for?” said the stranger, stepping into the greenhouse and making the lad draw back.
“Well, if you must know, sir—”
“No, I see. Old flue worn-out;—measuring for a new one.”
Vane shook his head, and, in spite of himself, began to speak out freely, the stranger seeming to draw him.
“No; I was thinking of hot-water pipes.”
“Good! Modern and better. Always go in for improvements. Use large ones.”
“Do you understand heating with hot-water, sir?”
“A little,” said the stranger, smiling. “Where are you going to make your furnace?”
“I wasn’t going to make one.”
“Going to do it with cold hot-water then?” said the stranger, smiling again.
“No, of course not. The kitchen-fireplace is through there,” said Vane, pointing with his rule, “and I want to put a boiler in, so that the one fire will answer both purposes.”
“Good! Excellent!” said the stranger sharply. “Your own idea?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do it, then, as soon as you can—before the winter. Now take me in to your uncle.”
Vane looked at him again, and now with quite a friendly feeling for the man who could sympathise with his plans.
He led the stranger to the front door, and was about to ask him his name, when the doctor came out of his little study.
“Ah, Deering,” he said quietly, “how are you? Who’d have thought of seeing you.”
“Not you, I suppose,” said the visitor quietly. “I was at Lincoln on business, and thought I would come round your way as I went back to town.”
“Glad to see you, man: come in. Vane, lad, find your aunt, and tell her Mr Deering is here.”
“Can’t see that I’m much like him,” said Vane to himself, as he went in search of his aunt, and saw her coming downstairs.
“Here’s Mr Deering, aunt,” he said, “and uncle wants you.”
“Oh, dear me!” cried Aunt Hannah, looking troubled, and beginning to arrange her collar and cuffs.
“Why did uncle say that I was like Mr Deering, aunt?” whispered Vane. “I’m not a bit. He’s dark and I’m fair.”
“He meant like him in his ways, my dear: always dreaming about new inventions, and making fortunes out of nothing. I do hope your uncle will not listen to any of his wild ideas.”
This description of the visitor excited Vane’s curiosity. One who approved of his plans respecting the heating of the greenhouse was worthy of respect, and Vane was in no way dissatisfied to hear that Mr Deering was quite ready to accept the doctor’s hospitality for a day or two.
That afternoon, as Aunt Hannah did not show the least disposition to leave the doctor and his guest alone, the latter rose and looked at Vane.
“I should like a walk,” he said. “Suppose you take me round the garden, squire.”
Vane followed him out eagerly; and as soon as they were in the garden, the visitor said quickly:—
“Got a workshop?”
Vane flushed a little.
“Only a bit of a shed,” he said. “It was meant to be a cow-house, but uncle lets me have it to amuse myself in.”
“Show it to me,” said the visitor.
“Wouldn’t you rather come round the grounds to have a look at uncle’s fruit?” said Vane hurriedly.
“No. Why do you want to keep me out of your den?”
“Well, it’s so untidy.”
“Workshops generally are. Some other reason.”
“I have such a lot of failures,” said Vane hurriedly.
“Blunders and mistakes, I suppose, in things you have tried to make?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
Vane would far rather have led their visitor in another direction, but there was a masterful decided way about him that was not to be denied, and the lad led him into the large shed which had been floored with boards and lined, so as to turn it into quite a respectable workshop, in which were, beside a great heavy deal table in the centre, a carpenter’s bench, and a turning lathe, while nails were knocked in everywhere, shelves ran from end to end, and the place presented to the eye about as strange a confusion of odds and ends as could have been seen out of a museum.
Vane looked at the visitor as he threw open the door, expecting to hear a derisive burst of laughter, but he stepped in quietly enough, and began to take up and handle the various objects which took his attention, making remarks the while.
“You should not leave your tools lying about like this: the edges get dulled, and sometimes they grow rusty. Haven’t you a tool-chest?”
“There is uncle’s old one,” said Vane.
“Exactly. Then, why don’t you keep them in the drawers?—Humph! Galvanic battery!”
“Yes; it was uncle’s.”
“And he gives it to you to play with, eh?”
Vane coloured again.
“I was trying to perform some experiments with it.”
“Oh, I see. Well, it’s a very good one; take care of it. Little chemistry, too, eh?”
“Yes: uncle shows me sometimes how to perform experiments.”
“But he does not show you how to be neat and orderly.”
“Oh, this is only a place to amuse oneself in!” said Vane.
“Exactly, but you can get ten times the amusement out of a shop where everything is in its place and there’s a place for everything. Now, suppose I wanted to perform some simple experiment, say, to show what convection is, with water, retort and spirit lamp?”
“Convection?” said Vane, thoughtfully, as if he were searching in his mind for the meaning of a word he had forgotten.
“Yes,” said the visitor, smiling. “Surely you know what convection is.”
“I’ve forgotten,” said Vane, shaking his head. “I knew once.”
“Then you have not forgotten. You’ve got it somewhere packed away. Head’s untidy, perhaps, as your laboratory.”
“I know,” cried Vane—“convection: it has to do with water expanding and rising when it is hot and descending when it is cold.”
“Of course it has,” said the visitor, laughing, “why you were lecturing me just now on the art of heating greenhouses by hot-water circulating through pipes; well, what makes it circulate?”
“The heat.”
“Of course, by the law of convection.”
Vane rubbed one ear.
“You had not thought of that?”
“No.”
“Ah, well, you will not forget it again. But, as I was saying—suppose I wanted to try and perform a simple experiment to prove, on a small scale, that the pipes you are designing would heat. I cannot see the things I want, and I’ll be bound to say you have them somewhere here.”
“Oh, yes: I’ve got them all somewhere.”
“Exactly. Take my advice, then, and be a little orderly. I don’t mean be a slave to order. You understand?”
“Oh, yes,” said Vane, annoyed, but at the same time pleased, for he felt that the visitor’s remarks were just.
“Humph! You have rather an inventive turn then, eh?”
“Oh, no,” cried Vane, disclaiming so grand a term, “I only try to make a few things here sometimes on wet days.”
“Pretty often, seemingly,” said the visitor, peering here and there. “Silk-winding, collecting. What’s this? Trying to make a steam engine?”
“No, not exactly an engine; but I thought that perhaps I might make a little machine that would turn a wheel.”
“And supply you with motive-power. Well, I will tell you at once that it would not.”
“Why not?” said Vane, with a little more confidence, as he grew used to his companion’s abrupt ways.
“Because you have gone the wrong way to work, groping along in the dark. I’ll be bound to say,” he continued, as he stood turning over the rough, clumsy contrivance upon which he had seized—a bit of mechanism which had cost the boy a good many of his shillings, and the blacksmith much time in filing and fitting in an extremely rough way—“that Newcomen and Watt and the other worthies of the steam engine’s early days hit upon exactly the same ideas. It is curious how men in different places, when trying to contrive some special thing, all start working in the same groove.”
“Then you think that is all stupid and waste of time, sir?”
“I did not say so. By no means. The bit of mechanism is of no use—never can be, but it shows me that you have the kind of brain that ought to fit you for an engineer, and the time you have spent over this has all been education. It will teach you one big lesson, my lad. When you try to invent anything again, no matter how simple, don’t begin at the very beginning, but seek out what has already been done, and begin where others have left off—making use of what is good in their work as a foundation for yours.”
“Yes, I see now,” said Vane. “I shall not forget that.”
Their visitor laughed.
“Then you will be a very exceptional fellow, Vane Lee. But, there, I hope you will not forget. Humph!” he continued, looking round, “You have a capital lot of material here: machinery and toys. No, I will not call them toys, because these playthings are often the parents of very useful machines. What’s that—balloon?”
“An attempt at one,” replied Vane.
“Oh, then, you have been trying to solve the flying problem.”
“Yes,” cried Vane excitedly; “have you?”
“Yes, I have had my season of thought over it, my lad; and I cannot help thinking that it will some day be mastered or discovered by accident.”
Vane’s lips parted, and he rested his elbows on the workbench, placed his chin in his hands, and gazed excitedly in his companion’s face.
“And how do you think it will be done?”
“Ah, that’s a difficult question to answer, boy. There is the problem to solve. All I say is, that if we have mastered the water and can contrive a machine that will swim like a fish—”
“But we have not,” said Vane.
“Indeed! Then what do you call an Atlantic liner, with the propeller in its tail?”
“But that swims on the top of the water.”
“Of course it does, because the people on board require air to breathe. Otherwise it could be made to swim beneath the water as a fish does, and at twenty miles an hour.”
“Yes: I did not think of that.”
“Well, as we have conquered the water to that extent, I do not see why we should not master the air.”
“We can rise in balloons.”
“Yes, but the balloon is clumsy and unmanageable. It will not do.”
“What then, sir?”
“That’s it, my boy, what then? It is easy to contrive a piece of mechanism with fans that will rise in the air, but when tried on a large scale, to be of any real service, I’m afraid it would fail.”
“Then why not something to fly like a bird or a bat?” said Vane eagerly.
“No; the power required to move the great flapping wings would be too weighty for it; and, besides, I always feel that there is a something in a bird or bat which enables it to make itself, bulk for bulk, the same weight as the atmosphere.”
“But that seems impossible,” said Vane.
“Seems, but it may not be so. Fifty years ago the man would have been laughed at who talked about sending a message to Australia and getting the answer back the same day, but we do not think much of it now. We would have thought of the Arabian Nights, and magicians, if a man had spoken to some one miles away, then listened to his tiny whisper answering back; but these telephonic communications are getting to be common business matters now. Why, Vane, when I was a little boy photography or light-writing was only being thought of: now people buy accurate likenesses of celebrities at a penny a piece on barrows in London streets.”
Vane nodded.
“To go back to the flying,” continued his companion, “I have thought and dreamed over it a great deal, but without result. I am satisfied, though, of one thing, and it is this, that some birds possess the power of gliding about in the air merely by the exercise of their will. I have watched great gulls floating along after a steamer at sea, by merely keeping their wings extended. At times they would give a slight flap or two, but not enough to affect their progress—it has appeared to me more to preserve their balance. And, again, in one of the great Alpine passes, I have watched the Swiss eagle—the Lammergeyer—rise from low down and begin sailing round and round, hardly beating with his wings, but always rising higher and higher in a vast spiral, till he was above the mountain-tops which walled in the sides of the valley. Then I have seen him sail right away. There is something more in nature connected with flight, which we have not yet discovered. I will not say that we never shall, for science is making mighty strides. There,” he added, merrily, “end of the lecture. Let’s go out in the open air.”
Vane sighed.
“I came from London, my boy, where all the air seems to be second-hand. Out here on this slope of the wolds, the breeze gives one life and strength. Take me for a walk, out in the woods, say, it will do me good, and make me forget the worries and cares of life.”
“Are you inventing something?”
Mr Deering gave the lad a sharp look, and nodded his head.
“May I ask what, sir?”
“No, my boy, you may not,” said Mr Deering, sadly. “Perhaps I am going straightway on the road to disappointment and failure; but I must go on now. Some day you will hear. Now take me where I can breathe. Oh, you happy young dog!” he cried merrily. “What a thing it is to be a boy!”
“Is it?” said Vane, quietly.
“Yes, it is. And you, sir, think to yourself, like the blind young mole you are, what a great thing it is to be a man. There, come out into the open air, and let’s look at nature; I get very weary sometimes of art.”
Vane looked wonderingly at his new friend and did not feel so warmly toward him as he had a short time before, but this passed off when they were in the garden, where he admired the doctor’s fruit, waxed eloquent over the apples and pears, and ate one of the former with as much enjoyment as a boy.
He was as merry as could be, too, and full of remarks as the doctor’s Jersey cow and French poultry were inspected, but at his best in the woods amongst the gnarled old oaks and great beeches, seeming never disposed to tire.
That night Mr Deering had a very long consultation with the doctor; and Vane noted that his aunt looked very serious indeed, but she said nothing till after breakfast the next morning, when their visitor had left them for town, and evidently in the highest spirits.
“Let that boy go on with his whims, doctor,” he said aloud, in Vane’s hearing. “He had better waste a little money in cranks and eccentrics than in toffee and hard-bake. Good-bye.”
And he was gone as suddenly, so it seemed to Vane, as he had come.
It was then that Vane heard his aunt say:
“Well, my dear, I hope it is for the best. It will be a very serious thing for us if it should go wrong.”
“Very,” said the doctor drily; and Vane wondered what it might be.