“Ah!” growled Pete; and with a sly grin he took a little dirty black clay pipe from his pocket, and held it up before pulling one of the cigarettes to pieces and thrusting it in paper and all, without noticing that he had drawn something out with the pipe, to fall to the ground.

“Want a light?” said Sam; but Pete made no answer, merely pulling a box of matches out of his pocket and putting it back.

“Come along now,” said Tom, hesitating though as he spoke.

“Wait a minute. Like sixpence, joskin?”

“Ah!” replied Pete, showing a set of dirty teeth in a grin.

“Catch then,” said Sam, contemptuously tossing the coin through the air; but Pete was not active enough to seize it, and it fell amongst the herbage, and had to be searched for. “Got it?”

“Ah!” said Pete, with a grin. “Chuck us another.”

“Not this time,” replied Sam, with a forced laugh, as he looked at the fellow. “Like pears?”

“Ah!”

“Here then.”

Sam took a well-grown hard Marie Louise pear from his pocket, and Tom stared. “Catch.”

The pear was thrown, caught deftly, and transferred to a pocket in Pete’s ragged trousers where a forgotten hole existed, and the fruit was seen to run down the leg and re-appear by the lad’s boot. Pete grinned, picked it up, and put the fruit in a safer place.

“Catch again!” cried Sam, bringing out another pear, and throwing it this time with all his might, evidently with the intention of hitting the lad a sharp blow.

But the pear was caught as it struck in Pete’s palms with a smart spang, and was duly transferred to the lad’s pocket.

“What a shame!” thought Tom. “Uncle’s choice pears, and they were not fit to pick.”

“Got any more?” cried Pete.

“Yes, one. Have it?” said Sam, drawing out the finest yet, but disfigured by the marks of teeth, a piece having been bitten out, and proving too hard and green to be palatable. “Now then, catch.”

This one was thrown viciously as a cricket-ball by long-field-off. But Pete’s eyes were keen; he had seen the white patch on the side of the fruit, and instead of trying to catch it, he ducked his head, and let it go far away among the fir-trees, the branch of one of which it struck, and split in pieces.

“No, yer didn’t,” said Pete, grinning. “I say, chuck us another sixpence.”

“Not this time,” said Sam, puffing again at his cigarette and then staring at Tom, who suddenly threw off the feeling of hesitation which had kept him back, and made a rush forward in the direction taken by the pear.

“Where are you going?” cried Sam. “You’ve got plenty at home.”

But Tom paid no heed; his eyes were fixed on the spot where Pete had stood when he took out his pipe, and made for it.

Pete’s eyes had grown sharp from the life he led in the woods, and amongst the furze of the great heath-like commons, and he saw now the object which had fallen from his pocket. His sluggish manner was cast aside, and, as if suddenly galvanised into action, he sprang forward to secure the little object lying half hidden upon a tuft of ling.

The consequence was a smart collision, the two lads’ heads coming violently in contact, and, according to the conclusions of mathematicians, flying off at a tangent. The next instant Tom and Pete, half-stunned, were seated amongst the furze gazing stupidly at each other.

Tom was the first to recover, and, bending forward, caught up a bit of twisted brass wire, secured to a short length of string, before rising to his feet.

Then Pete was up, while Sam smoked and laughed heartily.

“Here, that’s mine,” cried Pete; “give it to me.”

“No,” cried Tom, thrusting the wire into his pocket; “you’ve no business with a thing like that.”

“Give it to me,” growled Pete, “or I’ll half smash yer.”

“You touch me if you dare!” cried Tom fiercely.

“Bravo! ciss! Have it out!” cried Sam, clapping his hands and hissing, with the effect of bringing the dog trotting up, after doing a little hunting on its own account.

“You give me that bit of string back, or I’ll set the dog at yer,” cried Pete.

“I shall give it to Captain Ranson’s keeper,” cried Tom; and Pete took a step forward.

“Fetch him then, boy!” cried Pete, clapping his hands, and a fray seemed imminent, when Tom unclasped the hands he had clenched, rushed away a few yards, and Sam stood staring, ready to cheer Pete on to give his cousin a good hiding as he mentally termed it, for his cousin seemed to him to have shown the white feather and run.

Then he grasped the reason. Tom had not gone many yards, and was dancing and stamping about in the middle of some smoke rising from among the dead furze, and where for a few moments a dull flame rose amidst a faint crackling, as the fire began to get hold.

“Here, Sam! Pete!” he shouted, “come and help.”

But Sam glanced at his bright Oxford shoes and well-cut trousers, and stood fast, while a malignant grin began to spread over Pete Warboys’ face, as the dog cowered shivering behind him, with its thin tail tucked between its legs.

Pete thrust both hands down into his pockets, but did not stir to help, and Tom, after stamping out the fire in one place, had to dash to another; this being repeated again and again in the exciting moments. Then he mastered it, and a faint smoke and some blackened furze was all that was left of what, if left to itself, would have been a great common fire.

“All out?” said Sam, as his cousin came up hot and panting. “Why, what a fuss about nothing.”

“Fuss!” cried Tom excitedly; “why, if it had been left five minutes the fir-wood must have caught.”

“Bah! green wood won’t burn.”

“Oh, won’t it?” cried Pete. “It just will. Here, you give me my bit o’ string, or I shall go and say I see yer set the furze alight o’ purpose.”

“Go and say so then,” cried Tom. “No one will believe you. Come along, Sam.”

Tom gave one more look at the blackened furze, and then turned to his cousin.

“Look here,” he said; “you bear witness that this fire is quite out.”

“Oh, yes; it’s out,” said Sam.

“And that Pete Warboys showed us a box of matches.”

“Yes, but what of that?”

“Why this,” said Tom; “if the fire breaks out again, it will be because this fellow has set it alight.”

Pete’s features contracted, and without another word he slouched away into the wood and disappeared, followed by his dog.

“I say, you hit him there, Tom,” said Sam, with a laugh. “Think he would have done it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well, a bit of a bonfire wouldn’t have done much harm.”

“What!” cried Tom, looking at his cousin aghast. “Why, hundreds of acres of fir-trees might have been burnt. Uncle said there was a small patch burned one year, and there is so much turpentine in the trees, that they roared away like a furnace, and if they had not stood alone, the mischief would have been terrible.”

“Then you think that chap had set the furze alight before we came.”

“No, I don’t,” cried Tom sharply, “for I saw you throw a burning wax-match amongst them, only I was so stupid I never thought of going to tread upon it.”

“Yes, you always were precious chuckle-headed,” cried Sam, with a laugh. “But I don’t believe it was my match. If it had gone on burning, and there had been a row, I should have laid the blame on him.”

Tom gave him a quick look and said nothing, but thought a good deal.

Sam noticed the look, and naturally divined his cousin’s thoughts.

“Oh,” he said, “if you want to get on in the world, it’s of no use to give yourself away. I say, who is that joskin?”

“Pete Warboys, half gipsy sort of fellow. I’ve seen him poaching. Look here, this is a wire to catch hares or rabbits with.”

Tom took out the wire noose, and held it out to his cousin.

“How do you know? that wouldn’t catch a hare.”

“It would. The gardener showed me once with a bit of string. Look here; they drive a peg into the ground if there isn’t a furze stump handy, tie the string to it, and open the wire, so as to make a ring, and set it in a hare’s run.”

“What do you mean – its hole in the ground?”

“Hares don’t make holes in ground, but run through the same openings in hedges or amongst the furze and heath. You can see where they have beaten the grass and stuff down. Then the poachers put the wire ring upright, the hares run through, and drag the noose tight, and the more they struggle, the faster they are.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it? I never lived in the country. Here, catch hold. No, Stop; let’s set it, and try and catch one.”

Tom stared.

“I say,” he cried; “why I read all about that in The Justice of the Peace, – don’t you know that it’s punishable?”

“Of course for the joskins, but they wouldn’t say anything to a gentleman who did it for experiment.”

Tom laughed.

“I shouldn’t like a keeper to catch me doing it.”

“I said a gentleman,” said Sam coolly. “So that’s a young poacher, is it?”

“Yes, and I thought it was a pity for you to give him money.”

“Oh, I always like to behave well to the lower orders and servants when I’m out on a visit,” said Sam. “Here, let’s get back.”

“Back! why, I thought we were going for a long walk,” cried Tom.

“Well, we’ve had one. Suppose we went further, you cannot get a cab home, I suppose?”

“No,” said Tom quietly, and with a faint smile. “You couldn’t get any cabs here.”

Sam turned back, and Tom followed his example, thinking the while about their adventure, and of what a terrible fire there might have been.

“What are you going to do with that wire?”

“Show it to uncle,” said Tom quietly, “and then burn it.”

“Bah! brass wire won’t burn.”

“Oh yes, it will,” said Tom confidently. “Burn all away.”

“How do you know?”

“Chemistry,” said Tom. “I’ve read so. You can burn iron and steel all away.”

“No wonder you couldn’t get on with the law,” said Sam, with a sneer. “Here, come on; I’m tired.”

Chapter Twenty One

“How long’s he going to stop, Master Tom?” said David the next morning about breakfast-time, for he had come, according to custom, to see if cook wanted anything else on account of the company.

He had stumbled upon Tom, who was strolling about the grounds, waiting for his cousin to come down to the meal waiting ready, his uncle sitting reading by the window.

“He’s going back to-morrow, David.”

“And a jolly good job too, sir, I says,” cried David, “whether you like it or whether you don’t.”

Tom looked at him wonderingly.

“Yes, sir, you may stare, but I speaks out. I like you, Master Tom, and allus have, since I see you was a young gent as had a respect for our fruit. Of course I grows it for you to heat, but it ain’t Christian-like for people to come in my garden and ravage the things away, destroying and spoiling what ain’t ripe. I know, and your uncle knows, when things ought to be eaten, and then it’s a pleasure to see an apricot picked gentle like, so as it falls in your hand ready to be laid in a basket o’ leaves proper to go into the house. You can take ’em then; it makes you smile and feel a kind o’ pleasure in ’em, because they’re ripe. But I’d sooner grow none than see ’em tore off when they’re good for nowt. I didn’t see ’em go, Master Tom, but four o’ my chyce Maria Louisas has been picked, and I wouldn’t insult you, sir, by even thinking it was you. It wasn’t Pete Warboys, because he ain’t left his trail. Who was it, then, if it wasn’t your fine noo cousin?”

Tom said nothing, but thought of the hard green pears Sam had thrown at Pete Warboys.

“Just you look here, Master Tom,” continued the gardener, leading the way to the wall. “There’s where one was tore off, and a big bit o’ shoot as took two year to grow, fine fruit-bearing wood, but he off with it. Yes, there it is,” he cried, pouncing upon a newly-broken-off twig, “just as I expected. There’s where the pear was broke off arterward, leaving all the stalk on. Why, when that pear had been fit to pick, sir, it would have come off at that little jynt as soon as you put your hand under it and lifted it up. Why, I’ve know’d them pears, sir, as good as say thankye as soon as they felt your hand under ’em, for they’d growed too ripe and heavy to hang any longer. Dear, dear, dear, who’d be a gardener?”

“You would, David,” said Tom, smiling. “Never mind; it’s very tiresome, and he ought to have known better, if it was my cousin.”

“Knowed better, sir? Why, you’d ha’ thought a fine chap like he, dressed up to the nines with his shiny boots and hat, and smoking his ’bacco wrapped up in paper, instead of a dirty pipe, would ha’ been eddicated up to everything. There, sir, it’s Sunday mornin’, and I’m goin’ to church by-and-by, so I won’t let my angry passions rise; but if that young gent’s coming here much, I shall tell master as it’s all over with the garden, for I sha’n’t take no pride in it no more.”

“And that isn’t the worst of it,” thought Tom; “throwing those pears at Pete was telling him that we had plenty here on the walls, and tempting him to come.”

That day passed in a wearisome way to Tom. At church Sam swaggered in, and took his place after a haughty glance round, as if he were favouring the congregation by his condescension in coming. Then on leaving, when Mr Maxted bustled up to ask after Uncle Richard, fearing that he was absent from illness, till he heard that it was on account of his invalid brother, Sam began to show plenty of assumption and contempt for the little rustic church.

“Why don’t you have an organ?” he said.

“For two reasons, my dear young friend,” said Mr Maxted. “One is that we could not afford to buy one; the other that we have no one here who could play it if we had. We get on very well without.”

“But it sounds so comic for the clerk to go toot on that whistling thing, and then for people with such bad voices to do the singing, instead of a regular choir, the same as we have in town.”

“Dear me!” said Mr Maxted dryly, “it never sounds comic to my ears, for there is so much sincerity in the simple act of praise. But we are homely country people down here, and very rustic no doubt to you.”

“Confounded young prig!” said Mr Maxted, as he walked back to the Vicarage. “I felt as if I could kick him. Nice sentiments these for a clergyman on a Sunday,” he added. “But he did make me feel so cross.”

“What does he mean by calling me my dear young friend?” cried Sam, as soon as the Vicar was out of sight. “Nice time you must have of it down here, young fellow. But it serves you right for being so cocky and obstinate when you had such chances along with us.”

Tom was silent, but felt as if he could have said a great deal, and had the satisfaction of feeling that the gap between him and his cousin was growing wider and wider.

“I suppose he is a far superior fellow to what I am,” the boy said to himself; “and perhaps it’s my vanity, but I don’t want to change.”

It was the dreariest Sunday he had ever passed, but he rose the next morning in the highest spirits, for Sam’s father had told him to get off back to town directly after breakfast.

“If Uncle James would only get better and go too,” he said to himself as he dressed, “how much pleasanter it would be!”

But Uncle James came down to breakfast moaning at every step, and murmuring at having to leave his bed so soon. For he had been compelled to rise on account of two or three business matters with which he wished to charge his son; and he told every one in turn that he was very much worse, and that he was sure Furzebrough did not agree with him; but he ate, as Tom observed, a very hearty breakfast all the same.

David had had his own, and had started off at six o’clock to fetch the fly, which arrived in good time, to take Sam off to meet the fast up-train, Tom thinking to himself that it would not have been much hardship to walk across the fields on such a glorious morning.

“Going to see your cousin off?” said Uncle Richard, just as breakfast was over. “You wouldn’t mind the walk back, Tom?”

“Oh no, uncle,” said the boy, who felt startled that such a remark should be made when he was thinking about the walk.

But Tom was not destined to go across to the station, for Uncle James interposed.

“No, no, don’t send him away,” he said. “I have not had an airing in my bath-chair for two days, and I fancy that is why I feel so exhausted this morning.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Sam; “and besides,” he added importantly, “I shall be thinking of business all the time.”

“At last,” said Tom to himself, as his cousin stepped leisurely into the fly and lit a cigarette.

“On’y just time to ketch that there train, sir,” said the driver, who, feeling no fear of his bony horse starting, was down out of his seat to hold open the fly-door.

“Then drive faster,” said Sam coolly.

“Wish he’d show me how,” muttered the driver, as he closed the door and began to mount to his seat, scowling at his slow-going horse.

“Good-bye, clodhopper,” said Sam, toying with his cigarette, as he threw himself back in the fly without offering his hand.

“Good-bye, Sam,” replied Tom. “All right, driver;” and the wheels began to revolve.

“He thinks Uncle Richard ’ll leave him all his money,” muttered Sam, as they passed out of the swing-gate. “All that nice place too, and the old windmill; but he don’t have it if I can do anything.”

“There’s something wrong about me, I suppose,” said Tom to himself, as he turned down the garden, and then out into the lane, where he could look right away over the wild common-land, and inhale the fresh warm breeze. “Poor old chap though, I’m sorry for him!” he muttered. “Fancy having to go back to London on a day like this.”

Then from the bubbling up of his spirits consequent upon that feeling of release as from a burden which had come over him, Tom set off running – at first gently, then as hard as he could go, till at a turn of the lane he caught sight of Pete Warboys prowling along with his dog a couple of hundred yards away.

The dog caught sight of Tom running hard, uttered a yelp, tucked its tail between its legs, and began to run. Then Pete turned to see what had startled the dog, caught sight of Tom racing along, and, a guilty conscience needing no accuser, took it for granted that he was being chased; so away he ran, big stick in hand, his long arms flying, and his loose-jointed legs shambling over the ground at a pace which kept him well ahead.

This pleased Tom; there was something exhilarating in hunting his enemy, and besides, it was pleasant to feel that he was inspiring dread.

“Wonder what he has been doing,” said the boy, laughing to himself, as Pete struck off at right angles through the wood and disappeared, leaving his pursuer breathless in the lane. “Well, I sha’n’t run after him. – Hah! that has done me good.”

Tom had another good look round where the lane curved away now, and ran downhill past the big sand-pit at the dip; and then on away down to where the little river gurgled along, sending flashes of sunshine in all directions, while the country rose on the other side in a beautiful slope of furzy common, hanging wood, and closely-cut coppice, pretty well filled with game.

“Better get back,” thought Tom; and then he uttered a low whistle, and broke into a trot, with a new burden on his back in the shape of the bath-chair, for he had suddenly recollected Uncle James’s complaint about not having been out for a ride.

Sure enough when he reached the garden David met him.

“Master’s been a-shouting for you, sir. Yes, there he goes again.”

“Coming, uncle,” cried Tom; and he ran into the house, and encountered Uncle Richard.

“Oh, here you are at last. Get out the bath-chair quickly, my boy. Your uncle has been complaining bitterly. Little things make him fret, and he had set his mind upon a ride.”

“All right, uncle – round directly,” cried Tom, running off to the coach-house. “Phew! how hot I’ve made myself.”

In two minutes he was running the chair round to the front door, and as he passed the study window a doleful moaning greeted his ear; but it ceased upon the wheels being heard.

“All right, uncle, here it is,” cried Tom; and James Brandon came out resting upon a stick, and moaning piteously, while his brother came behind bearing a great plaid shawl.

“Here, take my arm, Jem,” he said.

“I can walk by myself,” was the pettish reply. “Then you’ve come back, sir. Tired of your job, I suppose. Oh dear! oh dear!”

“I really forgot it for a bit, uncle,” said Tom humbly.

“Forgot! Yes, you boys do nothing else but forget. Ah! Oh! Oh! I’m a broken man,” he groaned, as he sank back in the chair and took hold of the handle.

“I’ll pull you, uncle,” said Tom, looking at him wonderingly.

“You pull it so awkwardly. – Oh dear me! how short my breath is! – And you get in the way so when I want to see the country. Go behind.”

“All right, uncle. Which way would you like to go? Through the village?”

“What! down there by the churchyard? Ugh! No; go along that upper lane which leads by the fir-wood and the sand-pits. The air is fit to breathe there.”

“Yes, glorious,” said Uncle Richard cheerily. “Off you go, donkey, and bring your uncle back with a good appetite for dinner.”

“All right, uncle. Now, Uncle James, hold tight.”

“Be careful, sir, be careful,” cried the invalid; and he kept up his regular moaning as Tom pushed the chair out into the lane, and then round past the mill, and on toward the woods.

“How much did your uncle spend over workpeople for that whim of his?” said the invalid, suddenly leaving off moaning and looking round.

“Oh, I don’t know, uncle; a good deal, I believe.”

“Yes, yes; oh dear me! A good deal, no doubt. Keep out of the sand; it jolts me.”

“There’s such a lot of sand along here, uncle; the carts cut the road up so, coming from the pits.”

“Yes; horrible roads. There – oh – oh – oh! Go steady.”

“All right, uncle,” said Tom; and he pushed on steadily enough right along the lane where he had chased Pete Warboys not so long before. Then the fir-wood was reached, and at last the road rose till it was no longer down between two high sand-banks crowned with furze and pine, but opened out as they reached the top of the slope which ran down past the sand-pit to the river with its shallow ford.

“Which are your uncle’s woods?” said Uncle James suddenly.

“Right away back. You can see them when you lean forward. Stop a moment; let’s get close to the edge. That’s better,” he said, as he paused just at the top of the slope. “Now lean forward, and look away to the left a little way from the church tower. That’s one of them. I’m not sure about the others, for Uncle Richard does not talk about them much.”

Whizz! Rustle.

“What’s that?” said Uncle James, ceasing his tiresome moaning.

“Don’t know, uncle. Rabbit, I think.”

Rap!

“Yes, it was a rabbit. They strike the ground with their feet when they are startled.”

“Ah! Then that’s his wood is it?” said James Brandon, leaning forward. “A nice bit of property.”

Crack!

“What’s that, boy?”

“Somebody’s throwing stones,” cried Tom excitedly, turning to look round, but there was nothing visible, though the boy felt sure that the thrower must be Pete Warboys hidden somewhere among the trees. Then he felt sure of it, for, glancing toward the clumps of furze in the more open part, another well-aimed stone came and struck the road between the wheels of the bath-chair.

“Is that some one throwing at me?” cried Uncle James angrily.

“No, uncle,” said Tom, as he leaned upon the handle at the back of the chair; “I expect they’re meant for me – I’m sure of it now,” he added, for there was a slight rap upon his elbow, making him wince as he turned sharply.

“The scoundrel! Whoever it is I’ll have a policeman to him.”

“Yes; there: it is Pete Warboys,” cried Tom excitedly. “I saw him dodge out from behind one of the trees to throw. Oh, I say, did that hit you, uncle?”

“No, boy, only brushed the cushion. The dog! The scoundrel! He – Stop, don’t go and leave me here.”

Tom did not, for, acting on the impulse of the moment, as he saw Pete run out to hurl another stone, he wrenched himself round, unconsciously giving the chair a start, and ran off into the wood in chase of the insolent young poacher, who turned and fled.

No: Tom Blount did not leave his uncle there, for the chair began to run gently on upon its light wire wheels, then faster and faster, down the long hill slope, always gathering speed, till at last it was in full career, with the invalid sitting bolt upright, thoroughly unnerved, and trying with trembling hands to guide its front wheel so as to keep it in the centre of the road. Farther back the land had been soft, and to Tom’s cost as motive power; but more on the hill slope the soft sand had been washed away by many rains, and left the road hard, so that the three-wheeled chair ran with increasing speed, jolting, bounding, and at times seeming as if it must turn over. There, straight before the rider, was the spot below where the road forked, the main going on to the ford, that to the left, deep in sand, diving down into the large sand-pit, which had been dug at from time beyond the oldest traditions of the village. A kind of ridge had here been kept up, to form the roadway right down into the bottom – a cruel place for horses dragging cartloads of the heavy material – and from this ridge on either side there was a stiff slope down to where the level of the huge pit spread, quite a couple of hundred feet below the roadway straight onward to the ford.

And moment by moment Uncle James Brandon sped onward toward the fork, holding the cross handle of the bath-chair with both hands, and steering it first in one direction then in the other, as he hesitated as to which would be the safer. If he went to the right, there, crossing the road at right angles, was the little river, which might be shallow but looked deep; and at any rate meant, if not drowning, wetting. If he went to the left from where he raced on, it looked as if he would have to plunge down at headlong speed into what seemed to be an awful chasm.

But the time for consideration was very short, though thoughts fly like flashes. One way or the other, and he must decide instantly, for there was just before him the point where the road divided – a hundred yards away – fifty yards – twenty yards, and the wind rushing by his ears as the bath-chair bounded on.

Which was it to be?