He led the way through the open door, and round to the window beneath which the speculum had lain upon the bench, and examined the lately made flower-bed, in which various creepers had been planted to run up the wall.

“There’s no need to be in doubt,” said Uncle Richard, pointing; and Tom uttered an excited cry, for there, deeply-marked beneath the window were the prints of heavy-nailed boots, doubled – by the toes pointing toward the mill, and by the appearance as of some one stepping partly into them again.

“Are those your footmarks, David?” said his master.

“Mine, sir? No. Mine’s got tips on the toes. Look.”

He lifted one leg across the other, as if he were going to be shod by a blacksmith, showing that his soles would have made a very different impression upon the soft earth.

“Why, sir,” continued David with a smile, “I never leaves no footmarks. Natur’ meant a man’s hands to be used as rakes, or they would not ’a been this shape. I always gives the place a touch over where I’ve been.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Richard, nodding. “I have seen you.”

“You ayve, sir, many times,” said David, bending down; “and these here couldn’t have been made by Master Tom, anyhow.”

“Lend me your knife, David,” said Uncle Richard.

“Knife, sir? Oh, I’ll soon smooth them marks out.”

“Stop!” cried Uncle Richard, and only just in time, for David’s finger-rake was within an inch. “We may want to compare those with somebody’s boots.”

“Why o’ course, sir,” said the gardener, handing his knife already opened; when, placing one foot close against the bricks, Uncle Richard leaned across the bed, inserted the blade of the knife beside the iron casement frame, and with it lifted the fastening with the greatest ease.

David gave his leg a heavy slap.

“That was some ’un artful, sir, and he got in.”

“Slipped in descending inside, and dragged the speculum on the floor,” said Uncle Richard, frowning. “Now the question is, who was it?”

“Ah, who was it, sir?” said David. “Arn’t such a great many folk in Furzebrough, and I should say as it lies between Parson Maxted and Pete Warboys, and it warn’t parson, ’cause of the boots.”

“I don’t like to suspect unjustly,” said Uncle Richard, “so don’t say anything, David. I’ll go down to the lad’s home with my nephew here, and we’ll see if we can find out whether he has been about here since yesterday.”

“And you’ll have your work cut out, sir,” said David; “for that chap goes hawking about more like a ferret than aught else; but if it warn’t him, Master Tom, I’ll heat my head.”

Chapter Nineteen

David went back to his gardening, giving Tom a smile and a nod, and whispering to him as he followed his uncle after locking up the workshop and the yard gate —

“You and me’s good friends again, arn’t we, Master Tom?”

“Yes, of course, David; and I beg your pardon for ever suspecting you.”

“Oh, that’s all right, sir. It was six o’ one and half-a-dozen o’ the other. I thought it was you, and you thought it was me, and – ”

“Come, Tom,” said Uncle Richard; and the boy hurried forward, and did not hear the end of David’s speech.

“Mind we put a secure fastening on those lower windows to-morrow morning,” said Uncle Richard thoughtfully. “We ought to be able to live down in a place like this without nocturnal visitors; but there, one never knows.”

They walked on pretty sharply till the cottages were reached; and as soon as the visitors came up to the gate the curious-looking old woman appeared at the open door, shading her eyes with her hand, and peering at them as they walked down the path.

“It’s of no use to come here,” she cried loudly. “Don’t want any. No money to buy anything. Go to the rich gentlefolk and sech.”

“You old impostor!” said Uncle Richard softly. “You can see who we are plainly enough.”

“D’yer hear? Don’t want any to-day.”

“Now, Mrs Warboys, I want to see your grandson.”

“Hey?”

“I say I want to see your grandson.”

“What?”

“I want to see your grandson.”

“Who are you? Haven’t you got anything to sell?”

“You know I have not. You can see well enough when you come for help.”

“Hey? Who are you?”

“You know me. I am from Heatherleigh.”

“Oh, it’s you. I thought you wanted to sell calicoes and flannels. What did you bring your pack for? What’s in it? Oh, I see, it arn’t a pack at all; it’s a boy. What d’yer want?”

“I told you I want to see your grandson.”

“What for?”

“I want to ask him a few questions.”

“Ah, that’s no good. He says he had so many asked him at school that he’ll never answer no more.”

“Where is he? Call him,” said Uncle Richard.

“He arn’t at home, and you can’t see him.”

“How long will he be?”

“I d’know. P’raps he won’t come back no more, so you needn’t come poking about here.”

“When did he go out last?” said Uncle Richard.

“Last week I think, but my mind arn’t good now at figgers. Tell me what you want, and if ever I see him again I’ll tell him.”

“We are wasting time, Tom,” said Uncle Richard in a whisper.

“Yes,” said the old woman viciously; “you’re wasting time. It’s no use for you to come here to try and get things to say again my poor boy. I know you and your ways. You want to get him sent away, I know; and you’re not going to do it. I know you all – parson and doctor, and you, Brandon, you’re all against my poor innocent boy; but you’re not going to hurt him, for you’ve got me to reckon with first.”

“Your sight and hearing seem to have come back pretty readily, Mrs Warboys.”

“You never mind that,” cried the old woman. “I know what I’m saying, and I’m not afraid of any of you.”

Just then one of the women from the next cottages came out and curtseyed to them.

“Don’t take any notice of what she says, sir. She’s a bit put out to-day.”

“So it seems,” said Uncle Richard. “Let me see, Mrs Deane, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” said the woman, smiling.

“You can tell me then where is Pete Warboys?”

The old woman literally shrieked out —

“Let her say a word if she dares. She’d better. She hasn’t forgotten what I did to – Ah! look at that.”

She uttered the last words triumphantly, for the woman turned and ran hurriedly into her cottage.

“Come along, Tom,” said Uncle Richard; “we are doing no good here;” and he turned and led the way down toward the gate, with the old woman shrieking out a torrent of words after them, and playing an accompaniment formed of slaps upon the door till they were out of hearing.

“What a terrible old woman!” said Tom at last. “That Mrs Deane seemed quite frightened of her.”

“Yes; the poor ignorant people here believe that she has the power to do them harm; and in spite of all Mr Maxted tells them, he cannot shake their faith.”

“What shall you do now, uncle?”

“Nothing, my boy, upon second thoughts. I am afraid we should not be able to prove that this young scoundrel did the mischief without calling in the police, and that I am very loth to do.”

“But he ought not to be allowed to go about doing such things as that, uncle,” said Tom warmly. “It gets the wrong people suspected.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Richard dryly; “and perhaps we are suspecting the wrong person now.”

“But who else could it be, uncle?”

“Some tramp perhaps, on the way to London. No, Tom, I don’t think we will waste our time in trying to bring the misdoing home to Mr Pete Warboys, and then appearing before the magistrates to punish him. We had better set to work and polish a new speculum.”

“Then you will make another?” said Tom eagerly.

“Of course, my boy. I shall write off for two fresh discs to-night.”

“One will do, uncle.”

“No, boy; we must have two, and begin as before. The lower one is useless now, unless I keep it for a polishing tool.”

Chapter Twenty

“Master Tom, I’d be the last person in the world to find fault, or pick people to pieces, and I’m sure master knows that, as it’s his brother, I’d do anything; but really, my dear, I don’t think he’s so bad as he says.”

“Do you think not, Mrs Fidler?”

“I feel sure not, my dear. Here has he been down here for three weeks now, and the nursing up he’s had is wonderful. You look at the beef-tea he’s had, and the calves’-foot jelly I’ve made, and the port wine he has drunk, let alone the soles and chickens and chops he has every day.”

“But what makes you think Uncle James is not so ill?”

“Because he eats and drinks so much, my dear. I think he’s all right, only got something on his mind.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Tom. “He says he’s very bad. I must be off now; it’s time he went out in his bath-chair.”

“Yes, my dear, it’s wonderful what your uncle does for him, what with the flys, and pony-carriages, and the invalid chair got down on purpose for him. I only wish I had such a brother as master.”

For Uncle James had come down ready to groan when he was helped out of the fly, to sigh when he was helped off to bed, and call out when Tom led him to his chair at meal-times. For as soon as he came down he had attached himself to his nephew, and was never satisfied without the boy was at his side.

“Your noo uncle seems to like you, Master Tom,” said David one day.

“Yes; I wish he wouldn’t be quite so fond of me,” replied Tom. “He used not to be in London.”

But Tom’s wishes were of no avail, for his uncle would hardly let him quit his side; and when they were indoors he would sit and gaze wistfully at the boy, and now and then whisper —

“Tom, my boy, I think I ought to tell you, that – ”

Then he would stop, and, growing impatient at last, Tom broke out with —

“What is it, uncle, that you want to tell me?”

“Not now, my boy, another time, another time,” and then he would utter a low groan.

This sort of thing took place in the dining-room, study, garden, or away out on the common, or in sandy lanes; and at last, after having his curiosity excited a great many times, Tom began to get tired of it, and had hard work to keep from some pettish remark.

“But I mustn’t be unkind to him, poor fellow, now he’s so ill,” thought Tom; “he was very unkind to me, but I forgive him, and he’s very affectionate to me now.”

This was the case, for Uncle James seemed happier when he could get Tom alone, and hold his hand for some time; and he always ended by saying in a whimpering voice —

“Bless you, my boy, bless you!”

“Which is very nice,” said Tom to himself more than once, “but it will sound sickly, and as if he was very weak. I can’t make it out. It seems as if the worse he is, the kinder he gets to me, and as soon as he feels better he turns disagreeable. Oh, I am so tired of it; I wish he’d get well.”

But all the same Tom never showed his weariness, but tugged and butted the invalid chair through the deep sand of the lanes, and sat on banks close by it reading the newspaper to his uncle in the most patient way, till the invalid was tired, and then dragged him back to Heatherleigh to dinner or tea.

One evening, after a week thoroughly devoted to the visitor, who had been more than usually exacting in the length of his rides, declining to hold the handle and guide himself, making Tom tug him up hills and through heavy bits of lane, along which the boy toiled away as stubbornly as a donkey, Uncle Richard came upon him in the garden, when he was free, for the invalid had gone to lie down.

“Well, Tom,” he said.

“Well, uncle,” cried the boy, looking up at him rather disconsolately.

“All our telescope-making seems to have come to an end.”

“Yes, uncle.”

“I suppose you mean to go back with Uncle James to town?”

“Is he going back to London?” cried the boy eagerly.

“Yes, before long; but you need not be so eager to go.”

Tom stared at him.

“You are tired of Heatherleigh then?”

“Tired, uncle?”

“Yes; you’ve made me feel quite jealous. It’s all Uncle James now. But there, it’s boy-like to want plenty of change.”

“But I don’t want change.”

“Not want change? Why, you show it every day.”

Tom stared again, and then burst out in his abrupt way —

“Oh, uncle! you don’t think I want to go back?”

“You were asking eagerly enough about it just now.”

“Yes – because – I – that is – oh, uncle, don’t be cross with me; I can’t help it.”

“No, I suppose not, Tom.”

“But you don’t understand me. I don’t want to leave here; I wouldn’t go back to London on any consideration. I – there, I must say it, I – I – there, I hate Uncle James.”

“What!” said Uncle Richard, looking at the boy curiously. “You are never happy without you are along with him.”

“But that’s because he is ill, and I thought you wanted me to be attentive to him.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, that’s it, uncle. He never liked me, and always used to be cross with me, and now when he’s very bad he’s always so fond of me, and keeps me with him, so that I can’t get away, and – and I don’t like it at all.”

“That’s curious, isn’t it, Tom?”

“Yes, uncle, I suppose it is, and I can’t make it out. I don’t understand it a bit. It’s because he is ill, I suppose, and is sorry he used to be so rough with me. I wish he would get quite well and go back to London.”

“Humph! And you would rather not go up to attend to him?”

“I’d go if you ordered me to, but I should be very miserable if I had to – worse than I am now. But, uncle, I am doing my best.”

“Of course, Tom. There, I did not mean it, my boy. You are doing your duty admirably to your invalid relative. I hope we both are; and sick people’s fancies are to be studied. I don’t think though you need be quite so blunt, Master Blount, though,” added Uncle Richard, smiling.

“I’ll try not to be, uncle.”

“And talk about hating people. Rather rough kind of Christianity that, Tom.”

“I beg your pardon, it slipped out. I hope I don’t hate him.”

“So do I, my lad. There, go and do everything you can for him while he stays. He is certainly much better, and fancies now that he is worse than he is.”

“I’ll do everything I can, uncle,” said Tom eagerly.

“I know you will, my boy; and as soon as we have set him on his legs again, you and I will grind the new speculum. The case with the two discs came down this afternoon while you were out with the chair.”

“Oh!” cried Tom eagerly. “You haven’t unpacked them without me, uncle?”

“No, and I do not mean to. We’ll leave them where they are till our visitor has gone, and then we shall have to work like black-fellows to make up for lost time.”

“Yes, uncle,” cried Tom, rubbing his hands.

“No; like white-fellows,” said Uncle Richard, smiling, “and I think we shall get on faster.”

The next morning there was a surprise. It was Saturday, and about eleven, just when Tom had dragged round the invalid chair ready for the invalid, he saw a sprucely-dressed figure, with a “button-hole” in his coat, get down from the station fly, pay the man, and push open the gate with a cane, whose ivory crutch handle was held by a carefully-gloved hand.

For a few moments Tom was astounded; then he came to the conclusion that it was not very wonderful for a son to come down to see his sick father, and he left the chair, and went to meet his cousin.

“Hallo, bumpkin,” said Sam contemptuously, “how are you?”

“Quite well,” said Tom hesitatingly, and then frankly holding out his hand.

“All right; quite well, thanks,” said Sam, tapping the extended hand with the cane. “Don’t want to dirt my glove. What have you been doing – digging potatoes?”

“Only tidying up the chair for Uncle James.”

“Hands look grubby. You should wash ’em. I say, what a beastly out-of-the-way place this is. Where’s Uncle Dick? I only had a coffee and roll before I left London. Can I have some breakfast?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“How’s dad?”

“Uncle James is better,” said Tom quietly; and just then there was a loud groaning sound from within the porch.

“Oh – oh – oh!” at regular intervals.

“Hullo!” said Sam; “what’s the matter? been killing somebody?”

“No. That’s Uncle James being brought down from his room.”

“Why, he wrote up and said he was better.”

“It’s because his breath is so short first thing in the morning.”

“Oh, that’s it,” said Sam coolly, and he gave a sharp look round. “Is that the old windmill Uncle Dick bought?”

“Yes,” said Tom, who felt rather disgusted with his cousin’s indifference and cavalier airs.

At that moment they had nearly reached the porch from which the low groaning sounds issued, and the brothers appeared, with James leaning-heavily upon Richard’s arm.

Uncle James started on seeing his son, and left off groaning.

“Morning, gov’nor,” said Sam. “Better? Morning, Uncle Richard.”

“Is – is anything wrong at the office?” cried Uncle James excitedly.

“Wrong? No. We get on all right.”

“Then why have you come?”

“Oh, it was Saturday. Mother was going down to Brighton, and I thought I’d run down here from Saturday to Monday, and see how you were.”

“Oh,” said Uncle James in a tone of relief; and then he began to moan softly again, and moved toward the chair.

“Won’t you stop for a bit, and chat with Sam?” said Uncle Richard.

“Eh? Yes, if you like,” said his brother, hanging upon him feebly. “But it doesn’t much matter now.”

“Oh yes, it does, Jem, a good deal. Here, Sam, my lad, try and cheer your father up with what news you have of his business.”

“All right, uncle; but I say, you’ve got a pretty place here.”

“Glad you like it, my lad.”

“But I say, uncle, I haven’t had my breakfast. Started off so early.”

“I dare say something is being got ready for you,” replied his uncle, smiling. “My housekeeper is very thoughtful.”

Click! came from through the dining-room window.

“That sounds very much like the coffee-pot lid,” continued Uncle Richard. “Take your cousin in, Tom. I’ll lead your uncle round the garden while Sam has his breakfast, and then they can have their chat.”

“I couldn’t do it, Dick – I couldn’t do it,” groaned his brother piteously. “I’m as feeble as a babe.”

“Then the fresh air will strengthen you,” said Uncle Richard; and moaning softly as he drew his breath, James Brandon went slowly down the gravel walk.

“Only does that moaning noise when he thinks about it,” said Sam, as he entered the house.

“No, I’ve noticed that,” replied Tom; but all the same he felt annoyed by his cousin’s brutal indifference. “Let me take your hat.”

“No, thanks. Hang it up myself. Don’t want it spoiled.”

Tom drew back while the hat and cane were deposited in their places; and then the pair entered the little dining-room, where a luncheon tray was already placed at one end of the table, but with coffee-pot and bread-and-butter just being arranged by Mrs Fidler.

“Ah, that’s your sort,” said Sam; “but I say, old lady, I’m peckish; haven’t you got anything beside this?”

“Some ham is being fried, sir, and some eggs boiled,” said Mrs Fidler rather stiffly.

“Hah! that’s better,” said Sam; and Mrs Fidler left the room. “Well, young fellow, how are you getting on?” he continued, as he seated himself and began upon the breakfast. “What do you do here – clean the knives and boots?”

“No,” said Tom.

“I thought you did. Hands look grubby enough.”

Tom glanced at his hands, and saw that they were as rough and red as his cousin’s were white and delicate.

“I help uncle do all sorts of things,” he said quietly, “and sometimes I garden.”

“And wish yourself back at Mornington Crescent, I’ll bet tuppence.”

“I haven’t yet,” said Tom bluntly.

“No; you always were an ungrateful beggar,” said Sam in a contemptuous tone. “But that’s about all you were fit for – sort of gardener’s boy.”

Tom felt a curious sensation tingling in his veins, and his head was hot, for times had altered now, and he was not quite the same lad as the one who had submitted to be tyrannised over in town. He was about to utter some angry retort, but he checked himself.

“I won’t quarrel with him,” he said to himself; and just then Mrs Fidler appeared with a covered dish, which she placed before the visitor.

“Thankye,” he said shortly. “Take the cover away with you.”

There was always a line or two – anxious-looking lines – upon Mrs Fidler’s forehead; now five or six appeared, and her eyebrows suddenly grew closer together, and her lips tightened into a thin line, as she took off the cover, and then went in a very dignified way from the room.

Sam attacked the ham and eggs directly, and made a very hearty meal, throwing a word or two now and then at his cousin, and asking a few questions, but in an offhand, assumed, man-about-town style, and without so much as glancing at Tom, who sat watching him till he had finished his breakfast, when he rose, cleared his voice, rang the bell, brushed a few crumbs from his clothes, and took out a cigarette case.

“There!” he said; “I’ll join them down the garden now. Which is the way?”

“I’ll take you,” said Tom; and just as Mrs Fidler entered, followed by the maid to clear away, Sam struck a wax-match, lit his cigarette, and walked out into the little hall and out into the porch, followed by Tom.

“Not a bad part of the country,” said Sam condescendingly; “but who does uncle find to talk to? Precious few decent houses.”

“There are plenty,” said Tom; “but they are a good way off. There’s uncle at the bottom of the field.”

“So I see,” said Sam. “I have eyes in my head. Humph! flowers. Halloo! raspberries!”

He stepped off the green path they were on to where several rows of neatly-tied-up raspberry canes crossed the garden, and began to pull the ruddy thimbles off the tiny white cones upon which they grew; while David, who was on the other side busy removing young pear-tree shoots from the wall, stared at him aghast.

“Who’s that fellow?” said Sam, as he took a whiff, then a raspberry, alternately.

“Our gardener.”

“Our, eh? Well, tell him to go on with his work. What’s he staring at?”

“You,” said Tom bluntly.

Sam gave him a sharp look and returned to the path, bore off to his right, and began to examine the trained fruit trees on the wall.

“Pears, peaches, nectarines, apricots, plums,” said Sam coolly. “Why, they’re all green and unripe. No, they’re not; here’s an apricot looks ready.”

David uttered a gasp, for the young visitor stepped on to the neat border and took hold of the yellow apricot, whose progress the gardener had been watching for days, gave it a tug, and broke off the twig which bore it.

“Bah!” he ejaculated, as he dragged away the twig and a wall-nail and shred. “Why, the wretched thing isn’t ripe.”

He spat out the mouthful he had taken between his lips, and jerked the bitten fruit out over the hedge into the lane.

“Well,” muttered David, as the two lads went on, “I do call that imperdence. Wonder what master would ha’ said if he’d seen.”

“Master” had seen his nephew’s act as he came from the other side of the field with his brother leaning upon his arm, but he made no remark respecting it.

“You would like to have a chat now with your boy about business, eh, James?”

“Oh, there’s nothing to talk about,” said Sam carelessly. “Everything is all right. I have seen to that. I kept Pringle pretty well up to his work.”

“Poor old Pringle!” thought Tom. “I ought to write to him.”

“Sam is right,” said the lad’s father; “and – and – oh, dear me, how weak I feel! I don’t want to be troubled about business. Take me in now, Dick.”

“Come along, then,” said his brother good-humouredly. “Tom, my lad, you’d better show your cousin about the place, and try and interest him.”

“All right, uncle,” was the reply; and the two boys stood watching the brothers going towards the house.

“I don’t know that I want to be shown about,” said Sam haughtily. “I’m not a child. You country people seem to think that we want to see your cabbages and things. Here, let’s go and look at the windmill. I say, did they have a row about it?”

“What – Uncle James and Uncle Richard?”

“Of course, stupid; who did you think I meant?”

“How could they have a row about the observatory?”

“I said windmill, stupid.”

“It’s an observatory now,” said Tom coldly.

“Observatory! Yes; it looks it. The gov’nor was awfully wild about it. Nice brother, he said, to go and take the legal business to some one else instead of to our office. There, come along.”

“I must get the keys first.”

“Keys? Why, I thought you were all so beautifully innocent, that you never locked up anything in the country.”

“But we do,” said Tom. “Wait a minute. I’ll soon be back.”

“Don’t hurry yourself, bumpkin. I’ll have some more raspberries.”

“I should like to bumpkin him,” thought Tom, as he ran in, got the keys, and hurried back to where Sam was “worrying the rarsps,” as David afterwards indignantly said; and then the boys walked together out into the lane, and from thence through the gate into the mill-yard.

“Do you ever come here with him moon-shooting?” said Sam contemptuously.

“Uncle has not been doing any astronomy lately,” replied Tom; and feeling that he could not chat about their private life, he refrained from saying anything about the work upon which they had been engaged, but contented himself with showing the workshop, and then leading the way into the laboratory.

“What do you do here?” said Sam, looking contemptuously round.

“This is the laboratory.”

“Dear me, how fine we are! What’s in these bottles on the shelves?”

“Chemicals.”

“That your desk where you do your lessons?”

“No; that’s uncle’s bureau where he keeps his papers. We’re going to have another table, and some chemistry and astronomical books up soon. Uncle says that he shall make this an extra study.”

“Keeps his papers, eh? His will too, I suppose?”

“I don’t know,” said Tom.

“Yes, you do. None of your sham with me, I know you, Master Tom. That the way up-stairs?”

“Yes,” said Tom quietly; and they went on up the steps.

“Just as if you wouldn’t be artful enough to know all about that. Bound to say you’ve read it half-a-dozen times over.”

“I haven’t looked in uncle’s drawers, and if I had I shouldn’t have read any of his papers.”

“Not you, of course. Too jolly good; you are such a nice innocent sort of boy. Halloo! that the telescope? what a tuppenny-ha’penny thing.”

“Uncle is going to have a big one soon.”

“Oh, is he! What’s that door for?”

“To open and look out at the stars.”

“And that wheel?”

“To turn the whole of the roof round.”

“Turn it then.”

Tom obeyed good-humouredly enough, though at heart he resented the hectoring, bullying way adopted by his cousin, and thought how glad he would be when Monday came.

Then the shutter was opened, and the lads got out into the little gallery, where Tom began to point out the beauty of the landscape, and the distant houses and villages to be seen from the commanding height.

“Isn’t there a splendid view?” he said.

“Bosh! I’ve been at the top of Saint Paul’s. Not a bad place to smoke a cigarette.”

He lit one with a great deal of nourish, leaned over the rail, and began puffing little clouds of smoke into the air; but all the same he did not seem to enjoy it, and at the end of a few minutes allowed the little roll of tobacco to go out.

“What time do you dine here?” he said; “seven?”

Tom laughed.

“Two o’clock,” he said.

“I said dinner, not lunch, stupid.”

“I know what you said,” replied Tom, rather sharply, but he changed his tone directly afterward. “We don’t have lunch, but early dinner, and tea at six.”

“How horrible!” said Sam. “Here, let’s go down.”

He stepped back into the observatory, looking sharply at everything while Tom secured the shutter, and then they went down into the laboratory, which evidently took the visitor’s attention.

“Wouldn’t be a bad place with a good Turkey carpet and some easy-chairs. I should make it my smoking-room if I lived down here. I mean if I was transported down here.”

“You don’t think much of the place,” said Tom good-humouredly; “but you’d like it if you lived here. There’s capital fishing in the river, and the fir-woods swarm with rabbits. Walnut-wood,” he added, as his cousin examined the bureau. “Uncle says the brass-work is very old and curious, nearly two hundred years, he thinks.”

“Got a gun?” said Sam, turning sharply away.

“No.”

“Can’t you get one? We might go and shoot a few rabbits.”

“I don’t know whether we could even if there was a gun. They are preserved about here like the hares and pheasants.”

“There are no hares about here?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve seen several and made them run.”

“But no pheasants?”

“Plenty, and as tame as can be. I saw one the other day in our field.”

“Here, let’s go for a walk,” said Sam, the real boyish nature coming out at last. “I rather like sport, and shall buy a double gun shortly.”

They went down; the place was duly locked up, Tom having refrained from making any allusions to the speculum, and the work on hand, feeling as he did that his cousin would look upon it with a contemptuous sneer. Then the keys were returned to the house, and as the two lads stood in the hall they could hear the invalid talking very loudly to Uncle Richard, evidently upon some subject in which he took interest, and Sam laughed.

“What is it?” said Tom, staring.

“The gov’nor. Hear him? He has forgotten how bad he is. No groans now. Come on.”

Tom felt disgusted. He had often noticed the same thing, and formed his own conclusion; but it annoyed him to hear his cousin holding his father’s weakness up to ridicule; and he followed Sam out into the garden, and from thence along the sandy lane, thinking what a long time it would be till Monday, when the visitor would return to town.

They had not gone far along the edge of the pine-wood, when all at once a dog leaped out, to begin hunting amongst the furze and brambles, and dart in again.

“What’s he after?” cried Sam.

“Rabbits.”

As Tom spoke, his cousin struck a match to light a fresh cigarette; and as he lit up, he became aware of the fact that the long slouching figure of Pete Warboys was there by a tree, watching his act with profound interest.

Sam uttered a low laugh full of contempt, as he noticed the lad’s eager gaze, and after sending a curl of smoke floating upon the air, he jerked the wax-match from him for a few yards, to fall beneath some old dead furze.

“Have one, joskin?” he said.

Pete Warboys seemed to forget the presence of Tom, and slouched forward, holding out his hand as he uttered a low hoarse “Ah!”