"La! Master Tom, how you startled me. Not gone to the office?"

"No, Mary. I'm going away for good with Uncle Richard."

"Oh, I am glad! No, I ain't—I'm sorry. But when?"

"This morning—almost directly."

"My! I'll go and tell cook."

Tom reached his room, packed up his things as if in a dream, and bore the box down-stairs, his cousin having left the house some time. Then, still as if in a dream, he found himself in the breakfast-room, and heard Mary told to whistle for a cab.

Ten minutes later his uncle's Gladstone was on the roof side by side with the modest old school box; and after saying good-bye to all, they were going down the steps.

"Jump in first, Tom," said Uncle Richard, "and let's have no silly crying about leaving home."

Tom started, and stared at his uncle with his eyes wonderfully dry then, but the next moment they were moist, for two female figures were at the area gate waving their handkerchiefs; and as the boy leaned forward to wave his hand in return, mingled with the trampling of the horse, and the rattle of the wheels, there came his uncle's voice shouting Charing Cross to the cabman from the kerb, and from the area gate—

"Good-bye, Master Tom, good-bye!"

"Why, the boy's wet-eyed!" said Uncle Richard in a peculiarly sneering voice. "What a young scoundrel you must have been, sir, to make those two servants shout after you like that! There, now for a fresh home, boy, and the beginning of a new life, for your dear dead mother's sake."

"Uncle!" gasped Tom, with the weak tears now really showing in his eyes, for there was a wonderful change in his companion's voice, as he laid a firm hand upon his shoulder.

"Yes, Tom, your uncle, my boy. I never quarrel with my brother James or his wife, but I don't believe quite all that has been said about you."

All thought of running away to seek his fortune faded out of Tom Blount's brain, as he sat there with his teeth pressed together, staring straight away between the horse's ears, trying hard to be firm.

But after long months of a very wretched life it was stiff work to keep his feelings well within bounds.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

"Now, Tom, cloak-room; come along. I've got some tackle to take down with us. Only ten minutes before we start. Here, porter, luggage— quick!"

A man came forward with a barrow, and after taking the luggage from the cab, followed to the cloak-room, from whence sundry heavy, peculiar-looking packages and a box were handed out and trundled to the train; and in a few minutes, with his heart beating wildly, and a feeling of excitement making him long to jump up and shout aloud, Tom sat there watching the houses and trees seem to glide more and more swiftly past the windows as the speed increased. For to him it was like being suddenly freed from prison; and instead of the black cloud which had been hanging before his eyes—the blank curtain of the future which he had vainly tried to penetrate—he was now gazing mentally ahead along a vista full of bright sunshine and joy.

There were two other passengers in the carriage, who, like his uncle, were soon absorbed in their papers, and not a word was spoken until these two got out at the first stopping-place, twenty miles from town; and as soon as the porter had given the door that tremendous unnecessary bang so popular with his fraternity, and the train was speeding on again, Uncle Richard threw down his paper with a loud "Hah!" and turned to his nephew.

"Well, Tom," he said, "I don't know what I am to do with you now I have got you. You don't want to go on with the law?"

"Oh no, sir, I am too stupid," said Tom quickly.

"Why do you say 'sir,' my boy? Will not uncle do for your mother's brother?"

"Uncle James told me always to say 'sir,' sir—uncle I mean."

"Ah, but I'm not your Uncle James, and I like the old-fashioned way. Well, as you are too stupid for the law, I suppose I must try you with something easier—say mathematics."

Tom looked at him aghast.

"A nice pleasant subject, full of calculations. But we shall see. I suppose you will not mind helping me?"

"I shall be glad to, uncle."

"That's right; but you don't know yet what I want you to do. You will have to take your coat off sometimes, work hard, put on an apron, and often get dirty."

"Gardening, uncle? Oh, I shall like that."

"Yes; gardening sometimes, but in other ways too. I do a deal of tinkering now and then." Tom stared.

"Yes, I mean it: with tin and solder, and then I try brass and turning. I have a regular workshop, you know, with a small forge and anvil. Can you blow bellows?"

Tom stared a little harder as he gazed in the clear grey eyes and the calm unruffled countenance, in which there was not the dawn of a smile.

"I never tried," said Tom, "but I feel sure I could."

"And I feel sure you cannot without learning; some of the easiest-looking things are the hardest, you know. Of course any one can blow forge bellows after a fashion, but it requires some pains to manage the blast aright, and not send the small coal and sparks flying over the place, while the iron is being burned up."

"Iron burned up?" said Tom.

"To be sure. If I put a piece in the forge, I could manage the supply of oxygen so as to bring it from a cherry heat right up to a white, while possibly at your first trial you would burn a good deal of the iron away."

"I did not know that," said Sam.

"And I suppose there are a few other little things you do not know, my boy. There's a deal to learn, Tom, and the worst or best of it is, that the more you find out the more you realise that there is no end to discovery. But so much for the blacksmith's work."

"But you are not a blacksmith, uncle."

"Oh yes, I am, Tom, and a carpenter too. A bad workman I know, but I manage what I want. Then there is my new business too at the mill."

"Steam mill, uncle?"

"Oh no, nor yet water. It's a regular old-fashioned flour-mill with five sails. How shall you like that business?"

Tom looked harder at his uncle.

"Well, boy, do I seem a little queer? People down at Furzebrough say I am."

"No, sir," said Tom, colouring; "but all this does sound a little strange. Do you really mean that you have a windmill?"

"Yes, Tom, now. My very own, my boy. It was about that I came up yesterday—to pay the rest of the purchase-money, and get the deeds. Now we can set to work and do what we like."

Tom tried hard, but he could not help looking wonderingly at his uncle, of whom he had previously hardly seen anything. He knew that he had been in India till about a year before, and that his mother had once spoken of him as being eccentric. Now it appeared that he was to learn what this eccentricity meant.

"Did you learn any chemistry when you were at school, Tom?" said his uncle, after a pause.

"Very little, uncle. There were some lectures and experiments."

"All useful, boy. You know something about physics, of course?"

"Physics, uncle?" faltered Tom, as he began to think what an empty-headed fellow he was.

"Yes, physics; not physic—salts and senna, rhubarb and magnesia, and that sort of thing; but natural science, heat and light, and the wonders of optics."

Tom shook his head.

"Very little, uncle."

"Ah, well, you'll soon pick them up if you are interested, and not quite such a fool as your uncle made out. Do you know, Tom, that windmill has made me think that I never could have been a lawyer."

Tom was silent. Things seemed to be getting worse.

"Four times have I had to come up to town and see my lawyer, who had to see the seller's lawyer over and over again—the vendor I ought to have said. Now I suppose you wouldn't have thought that I was a vendee, would you?"

"Oh yes, I know that," said Sam. "You would be if you bought an estate."

"Come, then, you do know something, my lad. But it has been a tiresome business, with its investigation of titles and rights of usance, and court copyhold fines, and—Bother the business, it has taken up no end of time. But there, it's all over, and you and I can go and make the dust fly and set the millstones spinning as much as we like. Thumpers they are, Tom, three feet in diameter. I wish to goodness they had been discs of glass instead of stone."

"Do you, uncle?" said Tom, for his companion was evidently waiting for an answer.

"Yes; we could have tried some fine experiments with them, whereas they will be useless and unsalable I expect."

To Tom's great relief the conversation reverted to his life at Gray's Inn and Mornington Crescent, for the impression would keep growing upon him that what people said about his uncle's queerness might have some basis. But this opinion was soon shaken as they went on, for he was questioned very shrewdly about his cousin and all that had passed between them, till all at once his companion held out his hand.

"Shake hands, Tom, my boy. We are just entering Furzebrough parish, and I want to say this:—You came to me with an execrable character—"

"Yes, uncle; I'm very sorry."

"Then I'm not, my lad. For look here: I have been questioning you for the last hour, and I have observed one thing—in all your statements about your cousin, who is an abominably ill-behaved young whelp, you have never once spoken ill-naturedly about him, nor tried to run him down. I like this, my lad, and in spite of all that has been said, I believe that you and I will be very good friends indeed."

"Thank you, uncle," said Tom, huskily. "I mean to try."

"I know that, or I wouldn't have brought you home. There, there, look! quick! before it runs behind that fir clump, that's the old madman's windmill."

Tom turned sharply to the window, and caught sight of a five-sailed windmill some five miles away, on a long wooded ridge.

"See it?"

"Yes, uncle; I just caught sight of it."

"That's right; and in five minutes, when we are out of the cutting, you can see Heatherleigh in the opening between the two fir-woods."

"That's your house, uncle?"

"Yes, my lad—that's my house, where I carry on all my diabolical schemes, and perform my incantations, as old Mother Warboys says. You didn't know what a wicked uncle you had."

"No, sir," said Tom, smiling.

"Oh, I'm a dreadful wretch; and you did not know either, that within five-and-thirty miles of London as the crow flies, there is as much ignorance and superstition as there was a couple of hundred years or so ago, when they burnt people for being witches and wizards, and the like. There, now look; you can just see Heatherleigh there. No; too late— it's gone."

Tom felt puzzled. One minute he was drawn strongly towards his uncle, the next he felt uneasy, for there was something peculiar about him. Then he grew more puzzled as to whether the eccentricity was real or assumed. But he soon had something else to think of, for five minutes after a run through a wild bit of Surrey, that looked gloriously attractive with its sandy cuttings, commons, and fir-trees, to a boy who had been shut up closely for months in London, his uncle suddenly cried, "Here we are!" and rose to get his umbrella and overcoat out of the rack.

"Let's see, Tom," he said; "six packages in the van, haven't we? Mind that nothing is left behind."

The train was slackening speed, and the next minute they were standing on the platform of a pretty attractive station, quite alone amongst the fir-trees. The station-master's house was covered with roses and clematis, and he and the porters were evidently famous gardeners in their loneliness, for there was not a house near, the board up giving the name of the station as Furzebrough Road.

"Shall I take the luggage, sir?" said a man, touching his hat; and at the same moment Tom caught sight of a solitary fly standing outside the railings.

"Yes; six packages. By the way, Mr Day, did a box come down for me?"

This to the station-master, who came up as the train glided off and disappeared in a tunnelled sandhill a hundred yards farther.

"Yes, sir; very heavy box, marked 'Glass, with care.' Take it with you?"

"Yes, and let it be with care. Here, I'll come and pay the rates. Tom, my lad, see that the things are all got to the fly."

Tom nodded; and as his uncle disappeared in the station-master's office, he went to where the two porters were busy with a barrow and the luggage.

They were laughing and chatting with the flyman, and did not notice Tom's approach, so that he winced as he heard one of the porters say—

"Always some fresh contrapshum or another. Regular old lunatic, that's what he is."

"What's he going to do with that old mill?" said the other.

"Shoot the moon they—Is this all, sir?" said the flyman, who caught sight of Tom.

The boy nodded, and felt indignant as well as troubled, for he had learned a little about public opinion concerning his uncle.

"Be careful," he said; "some of those things are glass."

"All right, sir; we'll be careful enough. Look alive, Jem. Where will you have the box as come down by's mornin's goods?"

"On the footboard. Won't break us down, will it?"

"Tchah! not it. On'y about a hundredweight."

By the time the luggage was stowed on and about the fly, Uncle Richard came out, and expressed his satisfaction.

"Rather a lonely place in winter, Tom," he said, as he entered the stably-smelling old fly.

"Yes, but very beautiful," replied Tom. "Have we far to go?"

"Three miles, my lad, to the village, and a quarter of a mile further to the house."

It was a very slow ride, along sandy lanes, through which, as soon as there was the slightest suggestion of a hill, the horse walked; but everything looked lovely on this bright summer day. High banks where ferns clustered, plantations of fir, where brilliantly-plumaged pheasants looked up to see them pass, and every now and then rabbits scuttled up the steep sandy slopes, showing their white cottony tails before they disappeared amongst the bracken, or dived into a hole. Wild-flowers too dotted the sides of the lane, and as Tom sat gazing out of the window, drinking in the country sweets, his uncle nodded and smiled.

"Will it do, my boy?" he said.

"Do!" cried Tom, ecstatically; "it's lovely!"

"Humph! yes. Sun shines—don't rain."

In due time they reached and passed through a pretty flowery village, dotted about by the sides of a green, and with several houses of a better class, all looking as if surrounded by large gardens and orchards. Then, all at once, Tom's companion exclaimed—

"Here's the mill!" and he had hardly glanced at the tall round brick tower, with its wooden movable cap, sails, and fan, all looking weather-beaten and dilapidated, when his uncle exclaimed—"Here we are!" and down on a slope, nearly hidden in trees, he saw the red-tiled gables of a very attractive old English house, at whose gate the fly stopped.

"Drive in, sir?"

"Yes, of course. I'll have the boxes in the stable-yard. Pull up at the door first. But ring, and the gardener will come to help."

The gate was swung back and the fly was led in, now, between two wide grassy borders, with the soft, sandy gravel making hardly a sound beneath the wheels. This drive wound in and out, so that a couple of minutes had elapsed before they came in sight of the front of the house, with its broad porch and verandah.

"Welcome to Heatherleigh, Tom—our home," said his uncle. "Ah, here's Mrs Fidler."

This was as a very grim, serious-looking, grey-haired woman appeared in the porch.

"Back again, Mrs F.," cried Uncle Richard cheerily. "Here, this is my nephew, who has come to stay. Get my telegram?"

"Oh yes, sir, and everything's ready, sir."

Just then a sun-browned man, with a blue serge apron rolled up and tucked in round his waist, came up, touched his hat, and looked at the luggage.

"Morning, David. The box and portmanteau for indoors. The boxes to be very carefully placed in the coach-house. Glass, mind. Here, driver, give your horse some hay and water; David will see to it, while you go round to the kitchen for a crust of bread-and-cheese. Mind and be careful with those packages."

"Oh yes, sir, certainly," said the man; and he led the horse on amongst the shrubs; while as Tom followed his uncle into the prettily-furnished museum-like hall, he thought to himself—

"I wonder whether uncle knows how they laugh at him behind his back."

"Dinner at two, Mrs Fidler, I suppose?" said Uncle Richard just then.

"Yes, sir, precisely, if you please," was the reply.

"That's right. Here, Tom, let's go and see if they have smashed the glass in the packages."

Uncle Richard led the way out through a glass door, and across a velvety lawn, to a gate in a closely-clipped yew hedge. This opened upon a well-gravelled yard, where the rusty-looking old fly was standing, with its horse comfortably munching at the contents of its nose-bag, and David the gardener looking on with a pail of water at his feet.

"Why, David, how was it that the horse was not put in the stable and given a feed?"

"He's having his feed, sir," said the gardener. "Them's our oats. The driver said he'd rather not take him out, because the harness do give so, sir, specially the traces; so he had the nose-bag pretty well filled, and the horse have been going at 'em, sir, tremenjus."

"Boxes all right?"

"Yes, sir; I don't think we've broke anything; but that big chest did come down pretty heavy."

"What?" cried his master; and he hurried into the coach-house to examine the packing-case. "Humph! I hope they have not broken it," he muttered; "I won't stop to open it now. Come, Tom, we'll just walk round the garden, so that you may see my domain, and then I'll show you your room."

The domain proved to be a fairly extensive garden in the most perfect order, and Tom stared at the tokens of abundance. Whether he was gazing at fruit or flowers, it was the same: the crop looked rich and tempting in the extreme.

"We won't stop now, my lad. Let's go and see if Mrs F. has put your room ready."

Uncle Richard led the way, with Tom feasting his eyes upon the many objects which filled him with wonder and delight; and even then it all seemed to be so dreamlike, that he half expected to wake up and find that he had been dozing in the hot office in Gray's Inn.

But it was all real, and he looked with delight at the snug little room, whose window opened upon the garden, from which floated scents and sounds to which he had long been a stranger.

"Look sharp and wash your hands, boy, the dinner-bell will ring in ten minutes, I see, and Mrs Fidler is very particular. Will your room do?"

"Do, uncle!" cried Tom, in a tone which meant the extreme of satisfaction.

"That's right. You see they've brought up your box. Come down as soon as you are ready."

He went out and closed the door; and, with his head in a whirl, Tom felt as if he could do nothing but stand there and think; but his uncle's words were still ringing in his ears, and hurriedly removing the slight traces of his journey, he took one more look from his window over the soft, fresh, sloping, far-stretching landscape of garden, orchard, fir-wood, and stream far below in the hollow, and then looked round to the right, to see standing towering up within thirty yards, the windmill, with its broken sails and weatherworn wooden cap.

He had time for no more. A bell was being rung somewhere below, and he hurried down, eager to conform to his uncle's wishes.

"This way, Tom," greeted him; and his uncle pointed to the hat-pegs. "You'd better take to those two at the end, and stick to them, for Mrs Fidler's a bit of a tyrant with me—with us it will be now. Place for everything, she says, and everything in its place—don't you, old lady?"

"Yes, sir," said the housekeeper, who was just inside the little dining-room door, in a stiff black silk dress, with white bib and apron, and quaint, old-fashioned white cap. "It saves so much trouble, Master Tom, especially in a household like this, where your uncle is always busy with some new contrivance."

"Quite right," said Uncle Richard. "So take your chair there, Tom, and keep to it. What's for dinner? We're hungry."

Mrs Fidler smiled as she took her place at the head of the table, and a neat-looking maid-servant came and removed the covers, displaying a simple but temptingly cooked meal, to which the travellers did ample justice.

But Tom was not quite comfortable at first, for Mrs Fidler seemed to be looking very severely at him, as if rather resenting his presence, and sundry thoughts of his being an interloper began to trouble the lad, as he wondered how things would turn out. Every now and then, too, something was said which suggested an oddity about his uncle, which would give rise to all sorts of unpleasant thoughts. Still nothing could have been warmer than his welcome; and every now and then something cropped up which made the boy feel that this was not to be a temporary place of sojourning, but his home for years to come.

"There," exclaimed Uncle Richard, when they rose from the table, "this is a broken day for you, so you had better take your cap and have a good look round at the place and village. Tea at six punctually. Don't be late, or Mrs Fidler will be angry."

"I don't like to contradict you, sir," said the housekeeper, smiling gravely; "but as Master Tom is to form one of the household now, he ought, I think, to know the truth."

"Eh? The truth? Of course. What about?"

"Our way of living here, Master Tom," said the housekeeper, turning to him. "I should never presume to be angry with your uncle, sir; I only carry out his wishes. He is the most precise gentleman I ever met. Everything has to be to the minute; and as to dusting or moving any of the things in his workshop or labour atory, I—"

"Oh!" exclaimed Uncle Richard, grinding his teeth and screwing up his face. "My good Mrs Fidler, don't!"

"What have I done, sir?" exclaimed the housekeeper.

"Say workshop, and leave laboratory alone."

"Certainly, sir, if you wish it."

"That's right. Well, Tom, what are you waiting for?"

"I thought, if you wouldn't mind, I should like to help you unpack the boxes."

"Oh, by all means, boy. Come along; but I'm going to have a look over the windmill first—my windmill, Mrs Fidler, now. All settled."

"I'm very glad you've got over the bother, sir."

"Oh, dear me, no," said Uncle Richard, laughing; "it has only just began. Well, what is it?"

"I didn't speak, sir."

"No, but you looked volumes. What have they been saying now?"

"Don't ask me, sir, pray," said the housekeeper, looking terribly troubled. "I can't bear to hear such a good man as you are—"

"Tut! stuff, woman. Nothing of the kind, Tom. I'm not a good man, only an overbearing, nigger-driving old indigo planter, who likes to have his own way in everything. Now then, old lady, out with it. I like to hear what the fools tattle about me; and besides, I want Tom here to know what sort of a character I have in Furzebrough."

"I—I'd really rather not say, sir. I don't want to hear these things, but people will talk to David and cook and Jenny, and it all comes to me."

"Well, I want to hear. Out with it."

"I do wish you wouldn't ask me, sir."

"Can't help it, Mrs Fidler. Come."

"Bromley the baker told cook, sir, that if you were going to grind your own flour, you might bake your own bread, for not a loaf would he make of it."

"Glad of it. Then we should eat bread made of pure wheat-meal without any potatoes and ground bones in it. Good for us, eh, Tom?"

"Better, uncle," said the boy, smiling.

"Well, what next?"

"Doctor told David out in the lane that he was sure you had a bee in your bonnet."

"To be sure: so I have; besides hundreds and thousands in the hives. Go on."

"And Jane heard down the village that they're not going to call it Pinson's mill any more."

"Why should they? Pinson's dead and gone these four years. It's Richard Brandon's mill now."

"Yes, sir, but they've christened it Brandon's Folly."

"Ha, ha! So it is. But what is folly to some is wisdom to others. What next? Does old Mother Warboys say I am going to hold wizards' sabbaths up in the top storey, and ride round on the sails o' windy nights?"

"Not exactly that, sir," said Mrs Fidler, looking sadly troubled and perplexed; "but she said she was sure you would be doing something uncanny up there, and she hoped that no evil would descend upon the village in consequence, for she fully expected that we should be smitten for your sins."

"Did she tell you this?"

"No, sir; she said it to Mr Maxted."

"Told the vicar?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what did he say?"

"She says he insulted her, sir, and that she'll never go into his church any more. She's been telling every one so—that he called her a silly, prejudiced old woman."

"Is that all?"

"It's all I can remember, sir."

"And enough too. Look here, Tom, you had, I think, better call David, and tell him to put the pony in and drive you back to the station. I'm sure you would rather go back to your uncle James, and be happy with your cousin Sam."

Tom smiled.

"You can't want to stay here."

"Are you going up to the mill now, uncle?" said Tom, with a quaint look.

"Oh yes, directly, if you are going to risk it. Ready?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Then come on."



CHAPTER EIGHT.

Uncle Richard frowned and looked very serious, but he uttered a low chuckle as he led the way into a snug little room, half-library, half-museum. A long, heavy chest stood on one side, formed of plain, dark-coloured wood; but upon its being opened, Tom saw that it was all beautifully polished ornamental wood inside, and full of drawers, trays, and fittings for bright saws, hammers, chisels, and squares.

"My old tool-chest, Tom. I used to have that at Sattegur in my bungalow, and do most of my carpentering myself, for the natives there are not much of hands when you want anything strong. When you want a tool—bradawl, gimlet, pincers, anything—here they all are." He opened and shut drawers rapidly as he spoke. "Nails, screws, tacks, you'll know where to find them, only put things back when done with. What did I come for? Oh, a rule. Here we are." He took a new-looking boxwood rule from its place, closed the lid, and then led the way out into the garden, up a flight of steps formed of rough pieces of tree, and leading in a winding way through a shrubbery to a doorway in a wall. Passing through this, they were in a narrow lane, and close to the yard which enclosed the great brick tower of the mill.

"Nice and handy for conveying the flour-sacks to and fro, Tom, eh?" said Uncle Richard, smiling. "Now then, let's have another inspection of the new old property."

He took out a bunch of old keys, unlocked the gate, and entered; and then they crossed the yard, which was littered with old wood, and with here and there a worn-out millstone leaning against the walls, two extra large ones bound with rusty iron standing up like ornaments on either side of the mill-tower door, one above whitened with ancient flour, having evidently been used for loading carts drawn up close beneath.

"Splendid place, eh, Tom?" said Uncle Richard, as he unlocked the door, which uttered a low groan as its unoiled hinges were used, and a peculiar odour of old mildewed flour came from within. "We shall have a place now in case of invasion or civil war, ready for retreat and defence. We can barricade the lower doors, and hurl down the upper and nether millstones on the enemies' heads, set the mill going, and mow them down with the sails, and melt lead ready to pour down in ladlefuls to make them run from the scalding silver soup. A grand tower for practising all those old barbaric delights."

"Yes, sir," said Tom uneasily, for his uncle looked at him penetratingly, as if expecting an answer.

"Is he serious, or only joking me?" thought Tom the next moment. "He must be a little wrong. Got windmills in his head, like Don Quixote."

"Yah! yah! Who shot the moon?" came in a coarse yell from outside the gate.

Tom started, flushed, and turned round angrily, with his fists involuntarily clenching.

"Yah! yah! old wind-grinders!" cried the voice again, followed by several heavy bangs on the gate, evidently delivered with a stick.

"The impudent scoundrel!" cried Uncle Richard. "Go and tell that fellow that—"

But he got no further, for, taking all this as an insult meant for his uncle, Tom had darted off for the gate, which he threw open, and found himself face to face with a big, shambling, hobbledehoy sort of fellow of about eighteen or nineteen, who stepped back for a yard or two, swinging a heavy stick to and fro, while a mangy-looking cur, with one eye and a very thin tail like a greyhound's, kept close at his heels.

"What is it?" said Tom hotly. "Did you knock at the gate like that?"

"What's it got to do with you?" said the lad, insolently. "Get in, or I'll set the dog at yer."

Tom glanced at the dog and then at its master, and felt as he often had when his cousin Sam had been more than usually vicious.

"I'll jolly soon let yer know if yer give me any o' your mouth. Here, Badger, smell him, boy—ciss—smell him!"

The cur showed his teeth, and uttered a low snarling growl, as its master advanced urging him on; while Tom drew one leg a little back ready to deliver a kick, but otherwise stood his ground, feeling the while that everything was not going to be peaceful even in that lovely village.

But before hostilities could begin, and just as the dog and his master were within a yard, the gate was suddenly snatched open, and Uncle Richard appeared, when the lout turned sharply and ran off along the lane, followed by his dog, the fellow shouting "Yah! yah! yah!" his companion's snapping bark sounding like an imitation.

"Come in, Tom," said Uncle Richard. "I don't want you to get into rows with Master Pete Warboys. Insolent young rascal!"

Tom looked at his uncle inquiringly.

"That's the pest of the village, Tom. Nice young scoundrel. An idle dog, who has had a dozen places and will not stay in them, though he has no Cousin Sam to quarrel with."

Tom winced, for the words were a decided hit at him.

"So he has settled down into a regular nuisance, who does a bit of poaching, steals fruit, breaks windows, and generally annoys every one in the place. If he were not such an ugly, shambling cub some recruiting sergeant might pick him up. As it is, we have to put up with him and his ways."

"Yah!" came from a distance; and Tom's nerves tingled, for he did not like to hear the insult directed at his uncle, however strange he might be.

"There, let's go on with our inspection, my boy," and the gate was closed again, and they walked together up the slope into the mill.

There was not much to see on the ground-floor, save the whitened brick walls, a huge pillar or post in the middle, and a ladder-like flight of steps on one side, up which Uncle Richard led the way; and as Tom emerged from a trap-door, he found himself in a circular chamber, a little less than the one below, with three windows at the sides, the doorway he had seen from without, and three pairs of millstones placed horizontally, and connected by shafts with the mechanism above the cobwebby and flour-whitened ceiling. There was a flight of steps, too, here, and Tom now noticed that there was a trap-door overhead, formed with two flaps and a hole in the middle, while a similar one was at his feet.

"For sending the sacks up and down," said Uncle Richard. "The floors are thoroughly solid, and made of good stuff. Excellent," he continued. "Let's go up to the top."

He led the way up the second flight of steps into the next chamber, which was wonderfully like the floor below, minus the millstones; but the roof, instead of being a flat ceiling of boards and beams, was a complication of rafters, ties, posts, and cog-wheels, while at one side was the large pivot passing out through well-greased and blackened bearings, which bore the five sails of the mill, balanced to a great extent by the projecting fan, which, acted upon by the wind, caused the whole of the wooden cap which formed the top to revolve.

"There's the way out to repair the sails, or oil the great fan," said Uncle Richard, pointing to a little sloping doorway in the curved cap roof. "Think the place will do? It's a good fifteen feet from the floor to the curve."

"Do, sir?"

"Do, uncle, please. Yes, do! The whole top revolves easily enough, and will do so more easily when there are no sails or fan."

"Do you mean for defence, uncle?" stammered Tom.

"Defence?—nonsense. Attack, boy. The roof will only want modifying, and a long narrow shutter fitting, one that we can open or close easily from within. The place when cleaned, scraped, painted, and coloured will be all that one could wish, and is strong enough to bear anything. We can mount a monster here."

Tom looked more puzzled than ever. Monster?

"In the floor below make our laboratory, and keep chemicals and plates."

"Yes, uncle," said Tom; for he could understand that.

"And on the ground-floor do our grinding and fining."

"But the millstones are on the floor above," said Tom.

"Yes, I know, my boy, for the present; but I'll soon have them lowered down. There, the place will do splendidly, and Mrs Fidler will be at peace."

Tom did not see how Mrs Fidler could be at peace if the corn was ground on the basement-floor of the mill, but he said nothing.

"Now we'll go down," said Uncle Richard. "I'm more than satisfied. I'll have two or three stout fellows to lower down the stones; the rest we will do ourselves."

He led the way down, locked up the mill again and the outer gate, and then entered the garden and crossed it to the coach-house, where the packages brought down were waiting.

"Go to the tool-chest and fetch an iron chisel and the biggest hammer," said Uncle Richard. "No, it's screwed down. Bring the two largest screw-drivers."

Tom hurried away, and soon returned, to find that his uncle had opened one of the packages he had brought down, and was untying some brown paper, which proved to contain brass tubes and fittings, with slides and rack-work.

"Know what these are?" said Uncle Richard.

"They look like part of a photographic camera," said Tom.

"A good shot, my lad, but not right. Now for the big chest. I hope they are not broken. Try and get out some of the screws."

These were gradually drawn from the very stout chest, the lid lifted, a quantity of thickly-packed straw removed, and a round package of brown paper was revealed.

"Out with it, Tom," said his uncle. "No, don't trust to the string."

Tom bent down to lift out the package, but failed, and his uncle laughed.

"Let's both try," he said, and getting their fingers down, they lifted out something exceedingly heavy, and bore it to a stout bench. "Now for the other," said Uncle Richard; and after removing more straw, a second package was seen precisely like the first, which on being taken out and opened, proved to be a great solid disc of ground-glass made fairly smooth but quite opaque.

"Bravo! quite sound," cried Uncle Richard. "Now the other."

This proved also to have borne the journey well, and Tom looked from the two great discs to his uncle.

"Well," said the latter; "do you see what these are for?"

"To grind flour much finer?"

"To grind grandmothers, boy! Nonsense! Not to grind, but to be ground. Out of those Tom, you and I have to make a speculum of tremendous power."

"A looking-glass, sir?" said Tom, feeling rather depressed at his uncle's notion. For what could a sensible man want with looking-glasses made round, and weighing about a hundredweight each?

"Yes, a looking-glass, boy, for the sun and moon, and Jupiter, Venus, Mars, Saturn, and the rest to see their faces in, or for us to see them. I can't afford to give five or six hundred pounds for a telescope, so you and I will make a monster."

"Telescope!" cried Tom, as scales seemed to fall from before his eyes. "Oh, I see!"

"Well, didn't you see before?"

"No, uncle, I couldn't make it out. Then that's what you want the windmill for, to put the telescope in, with the top to turn round any way?"

"To be sure; it will make a splendid observatory, will it not?"

"Glorious, uncle!" cried the boy, whose appearance underwent a complete change, and instead of looking heavy and dull, his eyes sparkled with animation as he exclaimed eagerly, "How big will the telescope be?"

"A little wider than the speculum—about eighteen inches across."

"And how long?"

"Fifteen feet, boy."

"Yes," cried Tom, excitedly. "And when are you going to begin, uncle?"

"Now, my boy. At once."



CHAPTER NINE.

"Uncle James was always calling me a fool," said Tom the next morning; "and I must be, or I shouldn't have thought poor Uncle Richard half crazy. What a lot of stuff I did get into my head."

He was dressing with his window wide open; the sun was shining warmly, though it was only about six o'clock, and a delicious scent floated in from the garden and the pine-woods beyond.

"Grinding corn and turning miller!" he said, and he burst into a merry fit of laughter, and then stopped short with a hair-brush in his hand, staring at his face in the glass, for he hardly knew it; he looked so different to the sad, depressed lad whose countenance had gazed wearily at him from the mirror when he rose of a morning in London.

"It must be the fresh country air," he said to himself; but all the same he felt that it must be something more, and he hastened to finish dressing and go down, so as to have a good look round before breakfast punctually at eight.

"Seems like coming out for a holiday, or being at home again," he thought, as he went down-stairs softly, wondering whether he could easily get out, but to find that the front door was wide open, and hear the servants busy in the kitchen; while, as he stepped out on to the lawn, he suddenly heard the musical sound of a scythe being sharpened, and the next minute he was alongside of David, who had just begun to sweep the keen implement round and lay the daisies low.

"Mornin', sir, mornin'. Going to be reg'lar hot day.—Eh? Want to get up into the pine-woods. Best go straight to the bottom of the garden, and out into the field, and then strike up to your left."

Tom hurried through the bright grounds, followed the directions, and in a few minutes he was climbing a slope of rough common-land, here velvety short turf full of wild thyme, which exhaled its pungent odour as his feet crushed its dewy flowers, there tufted with an exceedingly fine-growing, soft kind of furze, beyond which were clumps of the greater, with its orange and yellow blooms, and rough patches of pale-bloomed ling and brilliant yellow broom.

Beyond this wide strip the closely-growing fir-trees began, forming a dense, dark-green wood.

It was for this that he was aiming; but as he reached the edge, he turned to stand in the bright sunshine looking down at the village.

There was the square-towered, ivy-covered church, with its clock-face glistening, and the hands pointing to twenty minutes past six. Beyond it, what seemed to be an extensive garden beside the churchyard, and the ivy-covered gables of a house that he immediately concluded was the Vicarage. Other attractive cottage-like houses were dotted about. Then he caught sight of the green, with its smaller places. Another more pretentious place or two, and as his eyes swept round, he reached, close at hand, his uncle's home—his home now, with the windmill towering above it just on the top of the ridge.

"What nonsense!" he said half aloud; and then he burst into a merry laugh, which ceased as he heard what sounded like a mocking echo, and a long-tailed black and white bird flew out of a fir-tree, with the sun glistening upon its burnished green and purple tail feathers. "Why it's a magpie!" he cried, and another flew out to follow the first.

As he stood watching them, his eyes rested upon a flashing of water here and there, showing where a stream ran winding through the shallow valley; while a couple of miles beyond it he could trace the railway now by a heavy goods train panting slowly along, with the engine funnel leaving a long train of white flocculent steam behind.

"Oh, it's lovely," he said softly. "Who could help being happy down here!"

There was rather a swelling in his throat, for he felt the change for a few moments. But the next minute the exploring desire was strong upon him, and he plunged in amongst the bronze, pillar-like stems of the fir-trees, and began wandering on and on in a kind of twilight, flecked and cut by vivid rays of sunshine, which came through the dense, dark-green canopy overhead. The place was full of attractions to such a newly-released prisoner, and his eyes were everywhere, now finding something to interest him in the thick soft carpet of pine-needles over which his feet glided. Then he caught sight of a squirrel which ran up a fir-tree, and stopped high up to watch the intruder. Then he came to an open place where trees had been felled; the stumps and chips dotted the ground, and bluebells had sprung up abundantly, along with patches of briar and heath revelling in the sunshine.

Here the sandy ground was showing soft and yellow in places, where it had been lately turned over, and in a minute or two he knew what by, for a rabbit sprang up from close to his feet, ran some fifty yards, and disappeared in a burrow; while from the trees beyond came a series of harsh cries, and he caught sight of half-a-dozen jays jerking themselves along, following one another in their soft flight, and showing the pure white patch just above their tails.

"There must be snakes and hedgehogs, and all kinds of wild things here," thought Tom, with all a boy's eagerness for country sights and sounds; "and look at that!"

He obeyed his own command, stopping short to watch, as he heard first a peculiar squealing sound, and directly after saw another rabbit come loping into sight, running in and out among the pine stumps, and keeping up the pitiful squealing sound as it ran.

"Must have been that," he thought; and he was about to run after it, when he suddenly saw something small and elongated appear among the bluebells. For a moment it appeared to be a large snake making its way unnaturally in an undulating, vertical way, instead of horizontally; but he directly after made out that it was a weasel in pursuit of the rabbit, going steadily along, evidently hunting by scent, and the next minute it had disappeared.

"I must not go much further," thought Tom after a while. "I ought to be back punctually to breakfast, and get my boots cleaned first."

He looked down at them, to see that the dew and sand had taken off all the polish, and stepping out now, he hurried for a mound, intending to make it the extent of his journey, and walk back from there to the village.

The mound was pine-crowned, and he had nearly reached the top, noting that the sand was liberally burrowed by rabbits, when all at once one of the little white-tailed creatures darted over the top into sight and rushed towards him; there was another rush, a big dog came into sight, overtook the rabbit before it could take refuge in a hole; there was a craunch, a squeal, and the dog was trotting back with the little animal drooping down on each side from its steel-trap jaws, quite dead.

"Poor rabbit," muttered Tom. "Why, it's that boy's dog."

He increased his pace, following the dog up the sandy mound; while the animal paid no heed to him, but went steadily on, with its thin, greyhound-like, bony tail hanging in a curve, till reaching the highest part of the eminence, the forepart with the rabbit disappeared, and then the tail curved up for a moment in the air and was gone.

Tom Blount felt interested, and hurried up now over the sand and fir-needles, till his head was above the top of the slope; and the next minute he was looking down at the back of the dog's master, as he was calmly stuffing the body of the defunct rabbit inside the lining of his coat, a slit in which served for a pocket. The dog was looking on, and just in front lay another rabbit, while a couple of yards away there was a hole scratched beneath the root of a tree, and the clean yellow sand scattered all about over the fir-needles.

The next moment Tom's sharp eyes detected that a couple of holes near at hand were covered with pieces of net, one of which suddenly began to move, and the dog drew its master's attention by giving a short low bark.

The warning had its effect, for the lad rose from his knees, stepped to the hole, and picked up something which Tom saw at once to be a long, reddish, writhing ferret. This snaky animal the lad thrust into his breast, stuffed the little piece of net into his pocket, picked up three more scraps from the mouths of other holes, and finally took the rabbit from the ground to pack inside his jacket lining, when the dog caught sight of Tom, and gave a sharp, angry bark.

The boy looked round, saw that he was observed, and started to run. But realising the next moment who it was, he hesitated, stopped, and hurriedly getting the second rabbit out of sight, put on a defiant air.

Tom smiled to himself.

"Poaching, or he wouldn't have begun to run.—I say," he said aloud, "whose wood is this?"

"What's that got to do with you?" cried the lad insolently. "'Tain't yours. And just you lookye here, if I ketches you sneaking arter and watching me again, I'll give you something as'll make that other side o' your face look swelled."

Tom involuntarily raised his hand to a tender spot on his right cheek, left from his encounter with his cousin, and the lad grinned.

"No, not that side, t'other," said the fellow. "Now then, just you hook it. You 'ain't no business here."

"As much business as you have," said Tom stoutly, for the lad's manner made his blood begin to flow more freely.

"No, you 'ain't; you're only a stranger, and just come."

"Anybody must have a right to come through here so long as he isn't poaching."

The lad gave a sharp look round, and then turned menacingly to Tom, with his fist doubled, and thrust his face forward.

"Just you say as I've been poaching agen, and I'll let you know."

His manner was so menacing that the dog read war, and set up a few hairs on the back of his neck, and uttered a low snarl.

"Yes, and I'll set the dog at yer too. Who's been poaching? Just you say that again."

"You look as if you had," said Tom stoutly, but with a very uncomfortable feeling running through him, for the dog's teeth were white and long, and looked just the kind to get a good hold of a running person's leg.

"Oh, I do, do I?" said the lad. "I'll soon let you know about that. Just you tell tales about me, and I'll half smash yer. I don't know as I won't now."

His manner was more menacing than ever, and Tom was beginning to feel that he would be compelled to place himself upon his defence, and signalise his coming to Furzebrough with another encounter, when, faintly-heard, came the striking of a church clock, borne on the soft morning breeze, arousing Tom to the fact that he must be a good way on towards an hour's walk back to his uncle's, and bringing up memories of his punctuality.

"Mustn't be late the first morning," he thought, just as the young rabbit poacher gave him a thrust back with his shoulder, and turning sharply he darted among the trees, and began to run toward his new home.

"Yah! coward!" was yelled after him, and a lump of sandy iron-stone struck him full in the back, making him wince; but he did not stop, only dodged in and out among the pine-trees, taking what he believed to be the right direction for the village. Then he ran faster, for he heard his assailant's voice urging on the dog.

"Ciss! Fetch him, Bob!" and glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the mongrel-looking brute was in full pursuit, snarling and uttering a low bark from time to time.

Tom's first and natural instinct was to run faster, in the hope that the dog would soon weary of the pursuit, and faster he did run, suffering from an unpleasant feeling of fear, for it is by no means pleasant to have a powerful, keen-toothed dog at your heels, one that has proved its ability to bite, and evidently intending to repeat the performance.

Tom ran, and the dog ran, and the latter soon proved that four legs are better for getting over the ground than two; for the next minute he was close up, snapping at the boy's legs, leaping at his hands, and sending him into a profuse perspiration.

"Ciss! fetch him down, boy!" came from a distance, and the dog responded by a bark and a snap at Tom's leg, which nearly took effect as he ran with all his might, and made him so desperate that he suddenly stopped short as the dog made a fresh snap, struck against him, and then from the effort rolled over and over on the ground.

Before it could gather itself up for a fresh attack Tom, in his desperation, stooped down and picked up the nearest thing to him—to wit, a good-sized fir-cone, which he hurled at the dog with all his might. It was very light, and did not hit its mark, but the young poacher's dog was a bad character, and must have known it. Certainly it had had stones thrown at it before that morning, and evidently under the impression that it was about to have its one eye knocked out or its head split, it uttered a piercing whining cry, tucked its thin tail between its legs, and began to run back toward its master as fast as it could go, chased by another fir-cone, which struck the ground close by it, and elicited another yelp.

Tom laughed, and at the same time felt annoyed with himself.

"Why didn't I do it at first?" he said; "and that isn't the worst of it—that fellow will think I ran away because I was afraid of him."

This last thought formed the subject upon which Tom dwelt all the way back, and he was still busy over an argument with himself as to whether he had been afraid of the young poacher or no, when, after missing the way two or three times among the firs, he caught sight of the church clock pointing to a quarter to eight.

"Just time to get in," he said, as he increased his pace; and then—"Yes, I suppose it was afraid of him, for he is a good deal bigger and stronger than I am."

"Hullo, Tom! been for a walk?" saluted him, as he was hurrying at last along the lane which divided his uncle's grounds from the new purchase.

Tom looked up quickly, and found that Uncle Richard was looking over the wall of the mill-yard.

"That's right," continued his uncle. "What do you think of the place?"

"Glorious!" said Tom.

"Hungry?"

"Terribly, uncle."

"That's right. Come along, Mrs Fidler's waiting for us by now."



CHAPTER TEN.

Directly after breakfast Tom followed his uncle to the coach-house, and from there up a ladder fastened to the side into the loft, where he looked around wonderingly, while his companion's face relaxed into a grim smile.

"It was originally intended for botanical productions, Tom," he said; "for a sort of hortus siccus, if you know what that means."

"Hortus—garden; siccus—I don't know what that means, uncle, unless it's dry."

"That's right, boy. Glad you know some Latin beside the legal. Dry garden, as a botanist calls it, where he stores up his specimens. But only a few kinds were kept here: hay, clover, oats, and linseed, in the form of cake. Now, you see, I've turned it into use for another science."

"Astronomy, uncle?"

"To be sure; but it's very small and inconvenient. But wait till we get the windmill going."

"Is this your telescope?" cried Tom.

"Yes, Tom; but it's too small. You'll have to work hard on my big one."

"Yes, uncle," said Tom, with quiet confidence, as he eagerly examined the glass with its mounting, and the many other objects about the place, one of which was a kind of trough half full of what seemed to be beautifully clear water, covered with a sheet of plate-glass.

"There, as soon as you've done we'll go to the mill, for I don't want to lose any time."

"I could stay here for hours, uncle," said Tom. "I want to know what all these things are for, and how you use them; but I'm ready now."

"That's right. The men are coming this morning to begin clearing away."

"So soon, uncle?"

"Yes, so soon. Life's short, Tom; and at my age one can't afford to waste time. Come along."

Tom began thinking as he followed his uncle, for his words suggested a good deal, inasmuch as he had been exceedingly extravagant with the time at his disposal, and much given to wishing the tedious hours to go by.

"Here they are," said Uncle Richard; for there was the sound of a horse's hoofs, and the crushing noise made by wheels in the lane.

"But I thought you were going to make the place into an observatory yourself, uncle, with me to help you?"

Uncle Richard smiled.

"It would be wasting valuable time, Tom," he said, "even if we could do it; but we could not. I've thought it over, and we shall have to content ourselves with making the glass."

On reaching the mill-yard it was to find half-a-dozen people there with ladders, scaffold-poles, ropes, blocks, and pulleys. There was a short consultation, and soon after the men began work, unbolting the woodwork of the sails, while others began to disconnect the millstones from the iron gearing.

This business brought up all the idlers of the village, who hung about looking on—some in a friendly way, others with a sneering look upon their countenances, as they let drop remarks that contained anything but respect for the owner of the place. But though they were careful not to let them reach Uncle Richard's ears, it seemed to Tom that more than once an extra unpleasant speech was made expressly for him to hear; and he coloured angrily as he felt that these people must know why the mill was being dismantled.

The work went on day after day, and first one great arm of the mill was lowered in safety, the others following, to make quite a stack of wood in a corner of the yard, but so arranged that one side touched the brickwork, as there was no need to leave room now for the revolution of the sails.

By this time the building had assumed the appearance of a tower, whose sides curved up to the wooden dome top, and the resemblance was completed as soon as the fan followed the sails.

Meanwhile the iron gearing connected with the stones had been taken down inside; then the stones had followed, being lowered through the floors into the basement, and from thence carefully rolled, to be leaned up against the wall.

"Hah!" said Uncle Richard, "at the end of a week," as he went up to the top-floor of the mill with his nephew.

"Is it only a week, uncle?" said Tom. "Why, it seems to me as if I had been here for a month."

"So long and tedious, boy?"

"Oh no, uncle," said Tom confusedly. "I meant I seem to have been here so long, and yet the time has gone like lightning."

"Then you can't have been very miserable, my boy?"

"Miserable!" cried Tom.

That was all; and Uncle Richard turned the conversation by pointing to the roof.

"There," he said, "that used to swing round easily enough with the weight of those huge sails, which looked so little upon the mill, but so big when they are down. It ought to move easily now, boy."

Tom tried, and found that the whole of the wooden top glided round upon its pivot with the greatest ease.

"Yes, that's all very well," said his uncle, "but it will have to be disconnected from the mill-post. I shall want that to bear the new glass."

"That?" said Tom, gazing at the huge beam which went down through the floor right to the basement of the mill.

"Yes, boy; that will make a grandly steady stand when wedged tight. To a great extent this place is as good as if it had been built on purpose for an observatory. I shall be glad though when we get rid of the workmen, and all the litter and rubbish are cleared away."

That afternoon a couple of carpenters began work, devoting themselves at first to the wooden dome-like roof, which they were to furnish from top to bottom with a narrow shutter, so formed that it could be opened to turn right over on to the roof, leaving a long slip open to the sky.

That night, after he had gone up to his bedroom, Tom threw open his window, to sit upon the ledge, reaching out so as to have a good look at the sky which spread above, one grand arch of darkest purple spangled with golden stars. To his right was the tower-like mill, and behind it almost the only constellation that he knew, to wit, Charles's Wain, with every star distinct, even to the little one, which he had been told represented the boy driving the horses of the old northern waggon.

"How thick the stars are to-night," he thought, as he traced the light clusters of the Milky Way, noting how it divided in one place into two. Then he tried to make out the Little Bear and failed, wondered which was the Dog Star, Venus, Jupiter, and Saturn, and ended by giving his ear a vicious rub.

"A fellow don't seem to know anything," he thought. "How stupid I must seem to Uncle Richard. But I mean to know before I've done. Hark!"

He listened attentively, for in the distance a nightingale was singing, and the sweet notes were answered from somewhere beyond, and again and again at greater distances still, the notes, though faint, sounding deliciously pure and sweet.

"Who would live in London?" he said to himself; and a curiously mingled feeling of pleasure and sadness came over him, as he dwelt upon his position now, and how happy life had suddenly become.

"And I thought of running away," he said softly, as he looked down now at the dimly-seen shrubs about the lawn. "Uncle Richard doesn't seem to think I'm such a fool. Wonder whether I can learn all about the stars."

Just then he yawned, for it was past ten, and the house so quiet that he felt sure that his uncle had gone to bed.

"Yes, I'll learn all about them and surprise him," he said. "There are plenty of books in the study. Then I shall not seem so stupid when we begin. What's that?"

He had put out his candle when he opened the casement to look at the stars, so that his room was all dark, and he was just about to close the window, and hurry off his clothes, when a faint clinking sound struck upon his ear.

The noise came from the mill-yard to his right, where he could dimly make out the outlines of the building against the northern sky; and it sounded as if some of the ironwork which had been taken down—bolts, nuts, bands, and rails—and piled against the wall had slipped a little, so as to make a couple of the pieces clink.

"That's what it is," thought Tom, and he reached out to draw in his casement window, when he heard the sound again, a little louder.

"Cat walking over the iron," thought Tom; but the noise came again, only a faint sound, but plain enough in the stillness of the night.

All at once a thought came which sent the blood flushing up into the boy's cheeks, and nailed him, as it were, to the window.

"There's some one in the yard stealing the old iron."

The lad's heart began to beat heavily, and thoughts came fast. Who could it be? Some one who knew where it all was, and meant to sell it. Surely it couldn't be David!

Tom leaned out, gazing in the direction of the sounds, which still continued, and he made out now that it was just as if somebody was hurriedly pulling bolts and nuts out of a heap, and putting them in a bag or a sack.

Hot with indignation, as soon as he had arrived at this point, against whoever it could be who was robbing his uncle, Tom half turned from the window to go and wake him.

No, he would not do that. It must be some one in the village, and if he could find out who, that would be enough, and he could tell his uncle in the morning.

Tom had only been a short time at Furzebrough, but it was long enough to make him know many of the people at sight, and, in spite of the darkness, he fancied that he would be able to recognise the marauder if he could get near enough.

He did not stop to think. There was a heavy trellis-work covered with roses and creepers all over his side of the house, and the sill of his window was not much over ten feet from the flower-beds below.

He had no cap up-stairs, and he was in his slippers, but this last was all the better, and with all a boy's activity he climbed out of the window, got a good hold of the trellis, felt down with his feet for a place, and descended with the greatest ease, avoided the narrow flower border by a bit of a spring, and landed upon David's carefully-kept grass.

Here for a moment or two he paused.

The gate would be locked at night, and it would be better to get out at the bottom of the garden.

Satisfied with this, he set off at a trot, the velvety grass deadening his steps. Then, getting over the iron hurdle, he passed through a bit of shrubbery, found a thick stick, and got over the palings into the lane.

Here he had to be more cautious, for he wanted to try and make out who was the thief without being seen, and perhaps getting a crack over the head, as he put it, with a piece of iron.

The lane would not do, and besides, the gate would be locked, and the wall awkward to climb.

Another idea suggested itself, and stopping at the end of the mill-yard, he passed into a field, and with his heart increasing its pulsations, partly from exertion, as much as from excitement, he hurried round on tiptoe to the back of the mill-yard, and cautiously raising himself up, peered over the top of the wall, and listened.

To his disappointment, he found that though he could look over the top of the wall, it was only at the mill—all below in the yard was invisible, but the place was all very still now. Not a sound fell upon his ear for some minutes, and then a very faint one, which sounded like a load being lifted from the top of the wall, but right away down by where he had entered the field.

Tom stole back, bending low the while, but saw nothing, nobody was carrying a burden, and he was getting to be in despair, when all at once there was the sound of a stifled sneeze, evidently from far along the lane.

That was enough. Tom was back in the lane directly, keeping close to the hedge, and following, he believed, some one who was making his way from the village out toward the open country.

At the end of a minute he was sure that some one was about thirty yards in front of him, and perfectly certain directly after that whoever it was had turned off to the right along a narrow path between two hedges which bounded the bottom of his uncle's field.

The path led round to the outskirts of the village, where there were some scattered cottages beyond the church, and feeling sure that the thief—if it was a thief—was making for there, Tom followed silently, guided twice over by a faint sniff, and pausing now and then to listen for some movement which he heard, the load the marauder carried brushing slightly against the hedge.

Then all at once the sounds ceased, and though Tom went on and on, and stopped to listen again and again, he could hear nothing. He hurried on quickly now, but felt that nobody could be at hand, and hurried back, peering now in the darkness to try and make out where the object of his search had struck off from the narrow way.

But in the obscurity he could make out nothing, for he was very ignorant about this track, never having been all along it before; and at last, thoroughly discouraged, he went back, growing more and more annoyed at his ill-success, and wishing he had made a rush and seized the thief at once.

And now, feeling thoroughly tired, as well as damped in his ardour, Tom reached the paling, climbed over into the shrubbery, reached the lawn, over which he walked slowly toward the darkened house, where he paused, and reached over to grasp the stout trellis, and spare David's flower-bed.

It was very easy, almost as much so as climbing a ladder, and in a minute he had reached first one arm and then the other over the window-sill, and was about to climb in, when he almost let go and nearly dropped back into the garden.

For there was a loud scratching noise, a line of light, and a wax-match flashed out, and then burned steadily, lighting up Uncle Richard's stern face and the little bedroom, as he stood a couple of yards back from the window.

"Now, sir, if you please," came in severe tones. "What is the meaning of this?"



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

It did not mean apples nor pears from the garden, for they were nearly as hard as wood, and it did not mean going out to carry on some game with a companion, for Tom knew no one there.

Uncle Richard was aware of this when he heard Tom stealing down the trellis, and peeped at him from a darkened window. Hence his stern question.

"Oh, uncle!" said Tom, in a subdued voice, "how you frightened me."

"I'm glad of it, sir," said Uncle Richard, holding the little match to the candle and increasing the illumination as Tom climbed in. "I meant to. Now, sir, if you please, explain."

"Yes, uncle," said Tom calmly, and making his uncle frown.

"The impudent young dog!" he said to himself; and then he stood nodding his head, and gradually growing more satisfied that he had after all been right in his estimate of his nephew, though the night's business had rather shaken his faith.

"Then you didn't make out who it was, Tom," he said, when Tom had explained.

"No, uncle; it was very stupid of me, I suppose."

"Very foolish to be guilty of such an escapade."

"Foolish!" said Tom, growing more damped than before; "but he was stealing the ironwork."

"Yes, evidently carrying it off; but it was old iron."

"But it was just as bad to steal old iron as new, uncle," said Tom.

"Ahem! yes, of course, my boy; but you must not be so venturesome. I mean that it was not worth while for you to risk being stricken down for the sake of saving some rubbish. Thieves are reckless when caught."

"I wasn't thinking of saving the old iron, uncle; I wanted to see who it was, so as to be able to tell you. I didn't think of being knocked down."

"Well, perhaps it was all a mistake, Tom," said Uncle Richard, "for it was in the dark."

"Yes, uncle, but I feel sure that some one was helping himself to the pieces of iron."

"Look in the morning, my boy. Get to bed now, and never do such a thing as that again. Good-night."

Uncle Richard nodded to the boy kindly enough and left him, while Tom soon turned in to bed, to lie dreaming that the man came back to fetch more iron, and kept on carrying it off till it was all gone. Then he came back again, lifted the mill sails as if they were mere twigs, and took them away, and lastly he was in the act of picking up one of the millstones, and putting it on his head, when Tom awoke, and found that it was a bright sunshiny morning.

It did not take him very long dressing, by which time it was nearly six, and he hurried down so as to get into the mill-yard before the carpenters came to work.

Sure enough, when he reached the heap of iron in the left-hand corner of the place, it was plain to see that a number of small pieces had been taken away, for not only had the heap been disturbed by some being removed, but the surface looked black, and not rusty like the rest, showing that a new surface had been exposed.

Satisfied that he was right, and there being no embargo placed upon his acting now, Tom went over the ground he had traversed the night before, and upon reaching the corner of the yard close to the lane, he came upon the spot where the bag must have been rested in getting it over; and as ill-luck would have it for the thief, the head of a great nail stuck out from between two bricks, a nail such as might have been used for the attaching of a clothes-line. This head had no doubt caught and torn the bag, for an iron screw nut lay on the top of the bricks.

Tom seized it, leaped the wall, and got into the lane, to find another nut in the road just where his uncle's field ended, and the narrow path went down between the two hedges.

This was a means of tracking, and, eager now to trace the place where the thief must have turned off, Tom went on with his hunt, to find the spot easily enough just at the corner of a potato field, where the hedge was so thin that a person could easily pass through.

"This must have been the place," thought Tom. "Yes, so it is. Hurrah!" he cried, and pressing against the hedge the hawthorn gave way on each side, and he pounced upon a piece of iron lying on the soft soil between two rows of neatly earthed-up potatoes. Better still, there were the deeply-marked footprints of some one who wore heavy boots, running straight between the next two rows, and following this step by step, Tom found two more nuts before he reached, the hedge on the other side of the field, and passed out into the lane in front of the straggling patch of cottages, from one of which the blue wood smoke was rising, and a little way off an old bent woman was going toward the stream which ran through this part of the village. She was carrying a tin kettle, and evidently on her way to fill it for breakfast.

Tom stopped in this lane undecided as to which way to go, for the thief might just as likely have passed to the left or right of these to another part of the village as have entered one of them.

He looked for the footprints, but they were only visible in the freshly-hoed field. There was not a sign in the hard road, and feeling now that he was at fault, he walked slowly down the lane, and then returned along the path close in front of the cottages. Just as he reached the gate leading into the patch of garden belonging to the one with the open door, and from which came the crackling of burning wood, his attention was taken by the loud yawning of some one within, and a large screw lying upon the crossbar of the palings which separated this garden from the next.

This screw was about four yards from the little gate, and it might have belonged to the occupants, but, as Tom darted in, certain that it was part of the plunder, he saw that it was muddy and wet, and just in front of him there was its imprint in the damp path, where it had evidently been trampled in and then picked out.

Tom felt certain now; and just then the little gate swung to, giving a bang which brought the yawner to the doorway in the person of the big lad who had shouted after Uncle Richard on the afternoon of Tom's first arrival, and next morning had been caught poaching. In fact, there was a ferrets' cage under the window with a couple of the creatures thrusting out their little pink noses as if asking to be fed.

The boys' eyes met, and there was no sleepiness in the bigger one's eyes as he caught sight of the screw in Tom's hand.

"Here!" he cried, rushing at him and trying to seize the piece of iron; "what are you doing here? That's mine."

"No, it isn't," cried Tom sturdily. "How did it come here?"

"What's that to you? You give that here, or it'll be the worse for you."

"Where did you get it?" cried Tom.

"It's no business of yours," cried the lad savagely. "Give it up, will yer."

He seized Tom by the collar with both hands, and tried then to snatch away the screw, but Tom held on with his spirit rising; and as the struggle went on, in another minute he would have been striking out fiercely, had not there been an interruption in the arrival of the old woman with the newly-filled kettle.

"Here, what's this?" she croaked, in a peculiarly hoarse voice; and as Tom looked round he found himself face to face with a keen-eyed, swarthy, wrinkled old woman, whose untended grey hair hung in ragged locks about her cheeks, and whose hooked nose and prominent chin gave her quite the aspect of some old witch as fancied by an artist for a book.

"Do you hear, Pete, who's this?" she cried again, before the lad could answer. "What does he want?"

"Says that old iron screw's his, granny."

"What, that?" cried the old woman, making a snatch with her thin long-nailed finger at the piece of iron Tom held as far as he could from his adversary.

She was more successful than the lad had been, for she obtained possession of it, and hurriedly thrust it into some receptacle hidden by the folds of her dirty tea-leaf-coloured dress.

"Mine!" she cried, "mine! Who is he? Want to steal it?"

"Yes. D'yer hear? Be off out of our place, or I'll soon let you know."

"I shall not go," cried Tom, who was now bubbling over with excitement. "You stole the iron from our place—from the mill last night."

The old woman turned upon him furiously.

"The mill," she cried; "who pulled the poor old mill down, and robbed poor people of their meal? No corn, no flour. I know who you are now. You belong to him yonder. I know you. Cursed all of you. I know him, with his wicked ways and sins and doings. Go away—go away!"

She raised her hands threateningly, after setting down the kettle; and Tom shrank back in dismay from an adversary with whom he could not cope.

"Not till he brings out the iron he came and stole," cried Tom.

"Stole?—who stole? What yer mean?" cried the lad. "Here, let me get at him, granny. He ain't coming calling people stealers here, is he? It's your bit o' iron, ain't it?"

"Yes, mine—mine," cried the old woman; "send him away—send him away before I put a look upon him as he'll never lose."

"D'yer hear? you'd better be off!" cried the lad; and, completely beaten, Tom shrank away, the old woman following him up, with her lips moving rapidly, her fingers gesticulating, and a look in her fiercely wild eyes that was startling. He was ready in his excitement to renew his struggle with the lad, in spite of a disparity of years and size; but the old woman was too much, and he did not breathe freely till he was some distance away from the cottages, and on his way back to Heatherleigh.

The first person he encountered was his uncle, who was down the garden ready to greet him with—

"Morning, Tom, lad; I'm afraid you were right about the iron."

"Yes, uncle; and I found who stole it. I traced it to one of the cottages," and he related his experience.

"Ah!" he said; "so you've fallen foul of old Mother Warboys. You don't believe in witches, do you, Tom?"

"No, uncle, of course not; but she's a horrible old woman."

"Yes, and the simple folk about here believe in her as something no canny, as the Scotch call it. So you think it was Master Pete Warboys, do you?"

"Yes, uncle, I feel sure it was; and if you sent a policeman at once, I dare say he would find the bag of iron."

"Hardly likely, Tom; they would have got rid of it before he came there if I did send one, which I shall not do."

"Not send—for stealing?"

"No, Tom," said Uncle Richard quietly. "Police means magistrates, magistrates mean conviction and prison. Master Pete's bad enough now."

"Yes, uncle; he poaches rabbits."

"I dare say," said Uncle Richard; "and if I sent him to prison, I should, I fear, make him worse, and all for the sake of a few pieces of old iron. No, Tom, I think we'll leave some one else to punish him. You and I are too busy to think of such things. We want to start upon our journey."

"Are we going out, uncle?" said Tom eagerly.

"Yes, boy, as soon as the great glass is made: off and away through the mighty realms of space, to plunge our eyes into the depths of the heavens, and see the wonders waiting for us there."

Tom felt a little puzzled by Uncle Richard's language, but he only said, "Yes, of course," and did not quite understand why Master Pete Warboys, who seemed to be as objectionable a young cub as ever inhabited a pleasant country village, should be allowed to go unpunished.

That day was spent in the mill, where the carpenters were working away steadily; and as the time sped on, the wooden dome-like roof was finished, the shutter worked well, and a little railed place was contrived so that men could go out to paint or repair, while at the same time the railings looked ornamental, and gave the place a finish. Then some rollers were added, to make the whole top glide round more easily; and the great post which ran up the centre of the mill was cut off level with the top chamber floor, and detached from the roof.

"That will be capital for a stand," said Uncle Richard; "and going right down to the ground as it does, gives great steadiness and freedom from vibration."

A few days more, and white-washing and a lining with matchboard had completely transformed the three floors of the mill, a liberal allowance of a dark stain and varnish giving the finishing touches, so that in what had been a remarkably short space of time the ramshackle old mill had become a very respectable-looking observatory, only waiting for the scientific apparatus, which had to be made.

The next thing was the clearing out of the yard, where, under David's superintendence, a couple of labouring men had a long task to cut up old wood and wheel it away, to be stacked in the coach-house and a shed. The great millstones were left—for ornament, Uncle Richard said; and as for the old iron, he said dryly to Tom, as they stood by the heap—

"Seems a pity that so many of these pieces were too heavy to lift."

"Why; uncle? Two men can lift one."

"Yes," said Uncle Richard; "but one boy can't, or it would all have been cleared away for me."

Tom looked in the dry quaint face, which appeared serious, although the boy felt that his uncle was in one of his humorous moods.

"There must be a strange fascination about stealing, Tom," he continued, "for, you see, quite half of that old iron is gone."

"More," said Tom.

"Yes, more, my boy. Strange what trouble rogues will take for very little. Now, for instance, I should say that whatever might have been its intrinsic worth, whoever stole that old iron could not possibly altogether have sold it for more than five shillings, that is to say, about one shilling per week."

"Is it five weeks since the men began to pull down, uncle?"

"Five weeks yesterday; and that amount could have been earned by an industrious boy in, say, four days, and by a labouring man in two. I'm afraid, Tom, that dishonesty does not pay."

David, who was close by, helping to load the remainder of the old iron into a cart, edged up to Tom as soon as Uncle Richard had gone into the mill.

"Strikes me, Master Tom," he said, "as I could put my hand on him as stole that there old iron."

"Who do you think it was, David?"

"Not going to name no names, sir," said David, screwing up his lips, and tightening a roll of blue serge apron about his waist. "Don't do to slander your neighbours; but if you was to say it was old Mother Warboys' hulking grandson, I wouldn't be so rude as to contradick you; not as I say it is, mind you, but I've knowed that chap ever since he was a dirty little gipsy whelp of a thing, and I never yet knowed him take anything as was out of his reach."

Tom laughed.

"But I just give him fair warning, Master Tom, that if he comes after my ribstons and Maria Louisas this year—"

"Did he come last year?" said Tom eagerly.

"Never you mind that, Master Tom. I don't say as he did, and I don't say as he didn't; but I will say this, and swear to it: them Maria Louisas on the wall has got eyes in their heads, and stalks as does for tails, but I never see one yet as had legs."

"Nor I neither, David," said Tom, laughing.

"No, sir; but all the same they walked over the wall and out into the lane somehow. So did lots of the ribstons and my king pippins. But tchah! it's no use to say nought to your uncle. If somebody was to come and steal his legs I don't b'lieve he'd holler 'Stop thief!' but when it comes to my fruit, as I'm that proud on it grieves me to see it picked, walking over the wall night after night, I feel sometimes as it's no good to prune and train, and manoor things."

"Ah, it must be vexatious, David!"

"Waxashus is nothing to it, sir. I tell you what it is, sir: it's made me wicked, that it has. There's them times when I've been going to church o' Sundays, and seen that there Pete Warboys and two or three other boys a-hanging about a corner waiting till everybody's inside to go and get into some mischief. I've gone to my seat along with the singers, sir, and you may believe me when I tell you, I've never heered a single word o' the sarmon, but sat there seeing that chap after my pears and apples all the time."

"Then you do give Pete Warboys the credit of it, David?"

"No, I don't, sir. I won't 'cuse nobody; but what I do say is this, that if ever I'm down the garden with a rake or hoe-handle in my hand, and Pete Warboys comes over the wall, I'll hit him as hard as I can, and ask master afterwards whether I've done right."

"David," said Tom eagerly, "how soon will the pears be ripe?"

"Oh, not for long enough yet, sir; and the worst of it is, if you're afraid of your pears and apples being stole, and picks 'em soon, they s'rivels up and has no taste in 'em."

"Then we must lie in wait for whoever it is, when the fruit is ripe, and catch them."

David shut both of his eyes tight, wrinkled his face up, and shook himself all over, then opened his eyes again, nodded, and whispered solemnly—

"Master Tom, we just will."

Then he went off to the loading of the iron, saw the last load carted out, and was back ready, after shutting the gate, to take his master's orders about turning the mill-yard into a shrubbery and garden.

A week with plenty of help from the labourers completely transformed the place. Then plenty of big shrubs and conifers were taken up from the garden, with what David called good balls to their roots, and planted here and there, loads of gravel were brought in, the roller was brought into action, and a wide broad walk led with a curve to the mill-door; there was a broad border round the tower itself, and a walk outside that; and Tom and Uncle Richard stood looking at the work one evening in a very satisfied frame of mind.

"There, Tom, now for tying up my money-bag. That's all I mean to spend. Now you and I will have to do the rest."

The next day was devoted to furnishing the interior with the odds and ends of scientific apparatus. The small telescope was mounted in the top-floor, the new apparatus, boxes, bottles, and jars were placed on tables and shelves in the middle floor, and the two great glass discs were carefully carried into the stone-floored basement, where a cask was stood up on end, a hole made in the head, and barrowful after barrowful of the fine silver sand plentiful in amongst the pine-trees was wheeled up and poured in, like so much water, with a big funnel, till the cask was full.

"What's that for?" said Uncle Richard, in response to an inquiry from his nephew. "That, Tom, is for a work-bench, meant to be so solid that it will not move. Try if you can stir it."

Tom gave it a thrust, and shook his head.

"I don't think three men could push it over, uncle," he said.

"Two couldn't, Tom. There, that will do. We mustn't have any accident with our speculum. Now then, to begin. Ready? Tuck up your sleeves."

Tom obeyed, and helped his uncle to lift one of the glass discs on to the top of the cask, where it was easily fixed by screwing three little brick-shaped pieces of wood on to the head close against the sides of the glass.

Uncle Richard paused after tightening the last screw, and stood looking at his nephew.

"What a queer boy you are, Tom," he said.

"Am I, uncle?" said the lad, colouring.

"To be sure you are. Most boys would be full of questions, and ask why that's done."

"Oh," cried Tom, who smiled as he felt relieved, "I'm just the same, uncle—as full of questions as any boy."

"But you don't speak."

"No, uncle; it's because I don't want you to think I'm a trouble, but I do want to know horribly all the same."

"I'm glad of it, boy, because I don't want what the Germans call a dummkopf to help me. I see; I must volunteer my information. To begin with then, that disc of glass is—"

"For the speculum," said Tom eagerly; "and you're going to polish it."

"Wrong. That's only for the tool. The other is for the speculum, and we are going to grind it upon the tool."

He turned to the other flat disc of ground-glass, where it lay upon a piece of folded blanket upon a bench under the window, and laid his head upon it.

"Doesn't look much, does it, Tom?" he said.

"No, uncle."

"And I'm afraid that all we have to go through may seem rather uninteresting to you."

"Oh no, uncle; it will be very interesting to make a telescope."

"I hope you will feel it so, boy, for you do not stand where I do, so you must set your young imagination to work. For my part, do you know what I can see in that dull flat piece of glass?"

Tom shook his head.

"Some of the greatest wonders of creation, boy. I can look forward and see it finished, and bringing to our eyes the sun with its majestic spots and ruddy corona, fierce with blazing heat so great that it is beyond our comprehension; the cold, pale, dead, silver moon, with its hundreds of old ring-plains and craters, scored and seamed, and looking to be only a few hundred miles away instead of two hundred and forty thousand; Jupiter with its four moons—perhaps we shall see the fifth— its belts and great red spot as it whirls round in space; brilliant Venus, with her changes like our moon; bright little Mercury; Saturn, with his disc-like ring, his belts and satellites; leaden-looking Neptune; ruddy Mars; the stars that look to us of a night bright points of light, opened out by that optic glass, and shown to be double, triple, and quadruple. Then too the different misty nebulas; the comets and the different-coloured stars—white, blue, and green. In short, endless wonders, my boy, such as excite, awe, and teach us how grand, how vast is the universe in which our tiny world goes spinning round. Come, boy, do you think you can feel interested in all this, or will you find it dry?"

"Dry, uncle! Oh!" panted Tom, with his eyes flashing with eagerness, "it sounds glorious."

"It is glorious, my boy; and you who have read your Arabian Nights, and stories of magicians and their doings, will have to own that our piece of dull glass will grow into a power that shall transcend infinitely anything the imagination of any storyteller ever invented. Now, what do you say? for I must not preach any more."

"Say, uncle!" cried Tom. "Let's begin at once!"

"I beg pardon, sir," said a pleasant voice; "but would you mind having a bell made to ring right in here?"

"No, Mrs Fidler," said Uncle Richard; "we will lay down iron pipes underground to make a speaking-tube, so that you can call when you want me. What is it—lunch?"

"Lunch, sir!" said Mrs Fidler; "dear me, no; the dinner's waiting and getting cold."

"Bother the old dinner!" thought Tom.

"Come, my lad, we must eat," said Uncle Richard, with a smile. "We shall not finish the telescope to-day."



CHAPTER TWELVE.

"Now then, we'll begin," said Uncle Richard; "and the first thing is to make our mould or gauge, for everything we do must be so exact that we can set distortion at defiance. We must have no aberration, as opticians call it."

"Begin to polish the glass, uncle?"

"Not yet. Fetch those two pieces of lath." Tom fetched a couple of thin pieces of wood, each a little over twelve feet long. These were laid upon the bench and screwed together, so as to make one rod just over twenty-four feet long.

Then at one end a hole was made, into which a large brass-headed nail was thrust, while through the other end a sharp-pointed bradawl was bored, so as to leave its sharp point sticking out a quarter of an inch on the other side.

"So far so good," said Uncle Richard. "Do you know what we are going to do, Tom?" Tom shook his head.

"Strike the curve on that piece of zinc that we are to make our speculum."

"Curve?" said Tom; "why, it's quite round now."

"Yes; the edge is, but we are going to work at the face."

"But arn't you going to polish it into a looking-glass?"

"Yes; but not a flat one—a plane. That would be of no use to us, Tom; we must have a parabolic curve."

"Oh," said Tom, who only knew parabolas from a cursory acquaintance with them through an old Greek friend called Euclid.

"Be patient, and you'll soon understand," continued Uncle Richard, who proceeded to secure the sheet of zinc to a piece of board by means of four tacks at its corners, and ended by carrying it out, and fixing the board just at the bottom of the border, close to the window.

A couple of strong nails at the sides of the board were sufficient, and then he led the way in.

"Now, Tom, take that ball of twine and the hammer, and go up to the top window, open it, and look out."

The boy did not stop to say "What for?" but ran up-stairs, opened the window, and looked out, to find his uncle beneath with the long rod.

"Lower down the end of the string," he cried; and this was done, Tom watching, and seeing it tied to the end of the rod where the brass nail stuck through.

"Haul up, Tom."

The twine was tightened, and the end of the rod drawn up till Tom could take it in his hand.

"Now take away the string."

This was done.

"Get your hammer."

"It's here on the window-sill, uncle."

"That's right. Now look here: I want you to lean out, and drive that nail in between two of the bricks, so that this marking-point at my end may hang just a few inches above the bottom of my piece of zinc. I'll guide it. That's just right. Now drive in the nail."

"Must come an inch higher, so that the nail may be opposite a joint."

"Take it an inch higher, and drive it in."

This was done, and the rod swung like an immensely long wooden pendulum.

"That's right," cried Uncle Richard; "the nail and this point are exactly twenty-four feet apart. Now keep your finger on the head of the nail to steady it while I mark the zinc."

Tom obeyed, and looked down the while, to see his uncle move the rod to and fro, till he had scored in the sheet of zinc a curve as neatly and more truly than if it had been done with a pair of compasses.

"That's all, Tom," he said. "Take out the nail and lower the rod down again carefully, or it will break."

All this was done, and Tom descended to find that both the rod and the sheet of zinc had been carried in, the latter laid on the bench, and displaying a curve deeply scratched upon it where the sharp-pointed bradawl had been drawn.

"There, Tom," said Uncle Richard, "that curve is exactly the one we have to make in our speculum, so that we may have a telescope of twelve feet focus. Do you understand?"

"No," said Tom bluntly.

"Never mind—you soon will. It means that when we have ground out the glass so that it is a hollow of that shape, all the light reflected will meet at a point just twelve feet distant from its surface. Now we have begun in real earnest."

He now took a keen-edged chisel, and pressing the corner down proceeded to deepen the mark scored in the zinc with the greatest care, until he had cut right through, forming the metal into two moulds, one of which was to gauge the lower disc, the other the upper. The edges of these were then rubbed carefully together as they lay flat upon the bench, till their edges were quite smooth; then some of the unnecessary zinc was cut away, a couple of big holes punched in them, and they were hung upon a couple of nails over the bench ready for use.

"Next thing," cried Uncle Richard, "is to begin upon the speculum itself, so now for our apparatus. Here we have it all: a bowl of fine sifted silver sand, a bucket of water, and a sponge. Very simple things for bringing the moon so near, eh?"

"But is that all we want, uncle?"

"At present, my boy," said Uncle Richard, proceeding to wet some of the sand and pretty well cover the disc of glass fixed upon the cask-head. "That's for grinding, as you see."

"Yes, uncle; but what are you going to rub it with?"

"The other disc. Here, catch hold. Be careful."

Tom obeyed, and the smooth piece of plate-glass was laid flat upon the first piece, crushing down the wet sand, and fitting well into its place.

"Now, my boy, if we rub those two together, what will be the effect?"

"Grind the glass," said Tom. "I once made a transparent slate like that, by rubbing a piece of glass on a stone with some sand and water. But I thought you wanted to hollow out the glass?"

"So I do, Tom."

"But that will only keep the pieces flat."

"I beg your pardon, my boy. If we rub and grind them as I propose, one of the discs will be rounded and the other hollowed exactly as I wish."

Tom stared, for this was to his way of thinking impossible.

"Are you sure you are right, uncle? Because if you are not, it would be so much trouble for nothing."

"Let's prove it," said Uncle Richard, smiling. "Go to the kitchen door, and ask the cook for a couple of good-sized pieces of salt and the meat-saw."

The cook stared, but furnished the required pieces, which were soon shaped into flat slabs with the saw. Then a sheet of newspaper was spread, and one of the flat pieces of salt placed upon the other.

"There you are, Tom," said his uncle. "I want you to see for yourself; then you will work better. Now then, grind away, keeping the bottom piece firm, and the top going in circular strokes, the top passing half off the bottom every time."

Tom began, and worked away, while from time to time the lower piece was turned round.

"Nice fine salt," said Uncle Richard; "cook ought to be much obliged."

"It will be as flat as flat," said Tom to himself, "but I don't like to tell him so."

"There, that will do," said Uncle Richard, at the end of ten minutes. "Now then, are the pieces both flat?"

"No, uncle; the bottom piece is rounded and the top hollowed, but I can't see why."

"Then I'll tell you: because the centre gets rubbed more than the sides, Tom. There, take paper and salt back, and we'll begin."

Tom caught up the paper, and soon returned, eager to commence; and after a little instruction as to how he was to place his hands upon the top glass, Uncle Richard placed himself exactly opposite to his nephew, with the upturned cask between them.

"Now, Tom, it will be a very long and tedious task with this great speculum; hot work for us too, so we must do a bit now and a bit then, so as not to weary ourselves out. Ready?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Then off."

"It will be a tiresome job," thought Tom, as, trying hard to get into regular swing with his uncle, the top glass was pushed to and fro from one to the other; but at each thrust Uncle Richard made a half step to his left, Tom, according to instructions, the same, so that the glass might be ground regularly all over. At the end of a quarter of an hour it was slid on one side, and more water and sand applied. Then on again, and the grinding continued, the weight of the glass making the task very difficult. But Tom worked manfully, encouraged by his uncle's assurance that every day he would grow more accustomed to the work, and after two more stoppages there was a cessation.

"There!" cried Uncle Richard; "one hour's enough for the first day. It wants faith to go on with such a business, Tom."

As he spoke the future speculum was carefully lifted off the lower one, sponged with clean water, and on examination proved to be pretty well scratched in the middle in a round patch, but the marks grew less and less, till at the edge of the glass it was hardly scratched at all.

"There, you see where we bite hardest," said Uncle Richard; "now we'll give it a rest, and ourselves too."

"But we shall never get done like this," cried Tom.

"Oh yes, we shall, boy; and I'm not going to leave off our work. Let's see: this we must call the workshop, the floor above our laboratory, and the top of course the observatory. Now then, let's go up into our laboratory, and I'll give you a lesson in elutriation."



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

"I haven't got a dictionary here, uncle," said Tom, with a smile, as they stood at the massive table under the window in the laboratory. "I don't know what elutriation means."

"I dare say not. I didn't till I was nearly fifty, Tom, but you soon shall know. Fetch that tin off the shelf."

Tom obeyed, and found a label on the top, on which was printed "Best Ground Emery."

"Well, you know what that is?"

"Emery? Powdered glass," said Tom promptly.

"Wrong. Diamond cuts diamond, Tom, but we want something stronger than powdered glass to polish itself. Emery is a mineral similar in nature to sapphire and ruby, but they are bright crystals, and emery is found in dull blocks."

"Then it's very valuable?" said Tom.

"Oh, no. It is fairly plentiful in Nature, and much used. Now then, we want coarse emery to grind our speculum after we have done with the sand, and then different degrees to follow, till we get some exquisitely fine for polishing. How are we to divide the contents of that tin so as to graduate our grinding and polishing powder?"

"Sift it, of course, uncle."

"And where would you get sieves sufficiently fine at last?"

"Muslin?"

"Oh, no. Here is where elutriation comes in, Tom; and here you see the use of some of the things I brought back from London the other day. To work. Bring forward that great pan."

This was done.

"Now empty in the contents of this packet."

Tom took up a little white paper of something soft, opened it, and poured the contents into the pan.

"Powdered gum arabic?" he said.

"Yes. Now empty the tin of emery upon it."

Tom opened the tin, and found within a dark chocolate-looking powder, which felt very gritty between his finger and thumb. This he emptied upon the gum arabic, and, in obedience to instructions, thoroughly mixed both together.

"To make the fine emery remain longer in suspension," said his uncle, "keep on stirring, Tom."

"All right, uncle. What, are you going to pour water in? It's like making a Christmas pudding."

For Uncle Richard took up a can of water, and began to pour a little in as Tom stirred, changing the powder first into a paste, then into a thick mud, then into a thin brown batter, and at last, when a couple of gallons or so had been poured in and the whole well mixed, the great pan was full of a dirty liquid, upon the top of which a scum gathered as the movement ceased. This scum Uncle Richard proceeded to skim off till the surface was quite clear, and then he glanced at his watch.