"Have one, joskin?" he said.

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

Sam re-opened his cigarette case and held it out.

"Take two," he said; and Pete did so without hesitation, while Tom stood frowning. "Know how to smoke them?" said Sam.

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

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

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

"Wait a minute. Like sixpence, joskin?"

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

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

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

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

"Ah!"

"Here then."

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

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

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

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

"What a shame!" thought Tom. "Uncle's choice pears, and they were not fit to pick."

"Got any more?" cried Pete.

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

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

"No, yer didn't," said Pete, grinning. "I say, chuck us another sixpence."

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

"Where are you going?" cried Sam. "You've got plenty at home."

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

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

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

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

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

"Here, that's mine," cried Pete; "give it to me."

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

"Give it to me," growled Pete, "or I'll half smash yer."

"You touch me if you dare!" cried Tom fiercely.

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

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

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

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

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

"Here, Sam! Pete!" he shouted, "come and help."

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

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

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

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

"Bah! green wood won't burn."

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

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

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

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

"Oh, yes; it's out," said Sam.

"And that Pete Warboys showed us a box of matches."

"Yes, but what of that?"

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

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

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

"I'm afraid so."

"Well, a bit of a bonfire wouldn't have done much harm."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How do you know? that wouldn't catch a hare."

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

"What do you mean—its hole in the ground?"

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

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

Tom stared.

"I say," he cried; "why I read all about that in The Justice of the Peace,—don't you know that it's punishable?"

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

Tom laughed.

"I shouldn't like a keeper to catch me doing it."

"I said a gentleman," said Sam coolly. "So that's a young poacher, is it?"

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

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

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

"Well, we've had one. Suppose we went further, you cannot get a cab home, I suppose?"

"No," said Tom quietly, and with a faint smile. "You couldn't get any cabs here."

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

"What are you going to do with that wire?"

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

"Bah! brass wire won't burn."

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

"How do you know?"

"Chemistry," said Tom. "I've read so. You can burn iron and steel all away."

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



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

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

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

"He's going back to-morrow, David."

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

Tom looked at him wonderingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why don't you have an organ?" he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then drive faster," said Sam coolly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sure enough when he reached the garden David met him.

"Master's been a-shouting for you, sir. Yes, there he goes again."

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

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

"All right, uncle—round directly," cried Tom, running off to the coach-house. "Phew! how hot I've made myself."

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

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

"Here, take my arm, Jem," he said.

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

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

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

"I'll pull you, uncle," said Tom, looking at him wonderingly.

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

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

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

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

"All right, uncle. Now, Uncle James, hold tight."

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

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

"Oh, I don't know, uncle; a good deal, I believe."

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

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

"Yes; horrible roads. There—oh—oh—oh! Go steady."

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

"Which are your uncle's woods?" said Uncle James suddenly.

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

Whizz! Rustle.

"What's that?" said Uncle James, ceasing his tiresome moaning.

"Don't know, uncle. Rabbit, I think."

Rap!

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

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

Crack!

"What's that, boy?"

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

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

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

"The scoundrel! Whoever it is I'll have a policeman to him."

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

"No, boy, only brushed the cushion. The dog! The scoundrel! He—Stop, don't go and leave me here."

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

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

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

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

Which was it to be?



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

"I don't want to fight," thought Tom Blount, as he rushed off in pursuit of Pete Warboys, this time with full intention, and not led into it by accident. "Fighting means knocking the skin off one's knuckles, black eyes, nose bleeding, and perhaps getting thrashed. And I may be, for he's a big, strong, heavy fellow, and I don't think I could hit him half hard enough to make him care. But it seems to me as if I must have a go at him. Can't stand there and be pelted by such a fellow, it looks so cowardly. Besides, he's a bit afraid, or he wouldn't run away."

All this and much more thought Tom, as he ran on as fast as he could on diving into the wood when he left the road. An hour or so ago, when Pete rushed in among the trees, Tom had soon given up the chase; but he felt that it would not do to let the young scoundrel feel that he was a kind of modern bold outlaw, with a sanctuary of his own in the woods; so clenching his fists hard, Tom sped on, making up his mind to run his quarry down.

"Uncle James won't mind my leaving him, if I can go back and say I have punched Pete's head for throwing stones at him.—Bother!"

Tom gathered himself up, and stood flinching during a few moments, for he had caught his foot against a closely-sawn-off stump, and though the earth was covered with pine-needles it was hard.

But the accident did not detain him many moments. There in front was Pete showing from time to time, as he dodged in and out among the tall columnar tree-trunks, now in shadow, now passing across some patch of sunshine; and Tom ran on faster than before, the pain having made him feel angry, and as if he must, to use his own words, "take it out of Pete," he being the active cause.

From time to time the great hulking lad glanced back, expecting to see that he had shaken off his pursuer, but looked in vain, for Tom was now doggedly determined. His brow was knit, his teeth set, and his clenched fists held close to his sides, and after keeping up the high rate of speed for some minutes, he now, feeling that it was going to be a long chase, settled down to a steady football or hare-and-hound trot, which combined fair pace with a likelihood of being able to stay.

Pete Warboys too had been compelled to slacken somewhat in his clumsy bovine rush, and Tom observed with satisfaction, as the minutes went on, and they must have been—pursuer and pursued—toiling over the slippery fir-needles for quite a quarter of an hour, that Pete glanced over his shoulder more often than before.

"He's getting pumped out," muttered Tom. "He's so big that he can't keep his wind, and he'll stop short soon. Oh, I say, why don't I look where I'm going!"

For this time the sandy earth had suddenly given way beneath him, just in the darkest part of the wood, and he plumped right down to the bottom of a rough pit, and went on before he could stop himself right under the roots of a great fir-tree, half of which stood out bare and strange, over what looked like an enormous rabbit-hole.

Tom looked wonderingly at the hole, and backed out into the pit, climbed out, and continued his chase, rather breathlessly now, for the fall had not been good for his breathing apparatus. He had lost ground too, but he soon made that up, for Pete was getting exhausted; and, what seemed strange, since Tom's last fall he had turned off, and appeared to be running in a circle, till all at once he stopped short with his back up against a tree, panting heavily, and with the perspiration dripping from his forehead.

There was a vicious look in the fellow's countenance, for he was showing his teeth, and as Tom drew near, he spat on one hand, and took a fresh grip of the thick stick he carried. Then, taking a step forward, he raised the weapon, and aimed a savage blow at his adversary, that would in all probability have laid Tom hors de combat, at all events for a few minutes.

But to give good effect to a blow struck with a stick, the object aimed at must be at a certain distance. If the blow fall when the object is beyond or within that distance, its efficacy is very much diminished.

Now as Pete struck at Tom, the latter was for a time at exactly the right distance, but as the boy rushed at him, or rather leaped at him at last, he was not in the aforesaid position long enough, and the blow did not fall till he was right upon Pete, getting a smart rap, but having the satisfaction of seeing the young scoundrel go down as if shot, and roll over and over at the foot of the tree.

Tom went down too, for he could not check himself; but he was up first, and ready enough to avoid another vicious blow from the cudgel, and catch Pete right in the mouth a most unscientific blow delivered with his right fist. All the same though it did its work, and Pete went down again.

Once more he sprang up, and tried to strike with the stick, but Tom's blood was up, and he closed with him, getting right in beyond his guard, and for the next few minutes there was a fierce struggle, ending in both going down together, Tom unfortunately undermost, and by the time he gained his feet his adversary was off again, running as hard as he could go.

"A coward!" muttered Tom, after running a few yards and then giving up, to stand panting and exhausted. "Ugh! how my side hurts!" he said, as he clapped his hand upon his ribs where the blow from the stick had fallen. "I don't care though; I won, and he has gone."

He stood trying to catch sight of Pete again, but could not see him, for the simple reason that the lad had dropped down behind a clump of bracken growing silver-leaved in the sunshine in an opening in the wood, and here he crept on, watching as, after hesitating, Tom began to retire hastily, so as to return to his uncle in the chair.

Tom did not go far though without stopping, for he had aimed to reach the pit into which he had fallen, and here he stood gazing down, evidently puzzled, for there was something particular about the place which attracted him; while, to increase his interest, all at once there was a rustling noise, and Pete Warboys' long lean dog thrust out its head from the side hole beneath the fir-tree roots, which hung out quite bare, looked up, saw who was gazing down, turned, and thrust out its long bony tail instead. This, however, was only seen for a moment and then gone.

"That's strange," thought Tom, as he walked on back pretty fast now, for it suddenly occurred to him that his uncle must be out of patience, and that he had been longer than he thought for.

He found too that he had run farther than he thought, and he was getting pretty hot and breathless by the time he trotted out of the wood, and into the sandy lane, where, instead of his uncle's face as he sat looking back impatiently in the chair, there was the bare road and nothing more, save a red admiral butterfly flitting here and there and settling in the dust.

"He must have asked somebody passing to wheel him back," thought Tom, who immediately began to play Red Indian or Australian black, and look for the trail—to wit, the thin wheel-marks left by the chair. But though he found those which had been made in coming plainly lining the soft sandy road, and ran in different directions toward home, there were no returning tracks.

"Then he must have gone on," thought Tom; and he ran back to where he had left his uncle, to see now faintly in the hard road a continuation of the three wheel-marks, so very distinct from any that would have been left by cart or carriage, being very narrow, and three instead of two or four.

He went on slowly trying to trace the wheel-marks, but the road soon became so hard that he missed them; a few yards farther on he saw the faint mark made by one, then again two showed, and then they ceased, but he was on the right track, he knew; and walking rapidly on down the hill, with his eyes now on the road, now right ahead toward the river and the ford, he began wondering who could have come along there, and where his uncle had made whoever it was take him.

"Why it would be miles round to get home this way," thought Tom. "Perhaps he was thirsty, and asked some one to take him down to the river, and is waiting."

It was not a good solution of the problem, and he was not satisfied, for there was no sign of the chair near the ford. But there were traces again in the sand which had been washed to the side, and here the chair had made a curve and run close to the bank for a few yards; then out into the hard road, and he saw no more for a couple of hundred yards, and then they were on the left-hand side, and Tom's blood began to turn cold, as they say, for the tracks bore off to the side road leading down into the sand-pit.

"Why the chair ran away with him, and perhaps he's killed."

At this thought Tom's legs ran away with him down into the thick sandy road, where the wheel-marks were deeply imprinted, showing that the chair had been that way.

Now he had never been down into the pit, and only once as far as the edge, into which he had peered from the road above, whence he had looked down upon a colony of martins darting in and out of their holes in the sand-cliff. He had determined to examine the place, but that morning he was compelled to hurry back to breakfast. Now he had to explore the depths of the pit in a very different mood; and he was not half-way down the slope when he found that the wheels had suddenly curved off, and then, from the marks on the smooth sand, it had evidently turned over. And there, sixty or seventy yards away, and fully a hundred feet below him, it lay bottom upwards, while away to its right sat its late occupant, making signs with his stick.

Tom did not attempt to go on down the roadway, which meant quite a journey, but began to descend at once, slipping, scrambling, falling and rolling over in the loose sand, which gave way at every step, and took him with it, till at last, hot and breathless, he reached the invalid's side.

"Hurt, uncle?" he panted.

"Hurt, sir?" cried Uncle James angrily. "I'm nearly killed. I don't think I've a whole bone left in my body. You dog! You scoundrel! You did it on purpose. You knew it was not safe to leave that miserable, wretched wreck of a thing. It was all out of revenge, and you wanted to kill me."

"Oh no, uncle," cried Tom, staring in astonishment at the vigour his uncle had displayed. For there was no moaning, no holding the hand to the breast, and complaining of shortness of breath, but an undue display of excitement and anger, which had made cheeks burn and eyes glisten.

"I'm very sorry, uncle; it was that young scoundrel's fault."

"I don't believe it, sir. It was a trick. Disgraceful!"

"Wait a minute, uncle, and I'll fetch the chair. I'll get it here, and then help you up to the top before I take it up."

"Fetch the chair!" stormed James Brandon. "It's a wreck, sir; one wheel's off, and the front one's all bent sidewise. Here, give me your hand."

He caught hold of the extended wrist, and with that and the stick, toiled up the steep slope, to the boy's astonishment; and when they had reached the road, jerked the wrist from him, and walked on without a word till they came in sight of the house, when Tom plucked up the courage to speak.

"Really, uncle, I did not think of anything but running after that lad."

"I want no excuses, sir," cried Uncle James fiercely. "I know what it means. You are too idle—you are sick of wheeling the chair. It was all a planned thing. But mind, I shall take a note of it, and you will find out that you've made the great mistake of your life. Here, you sir!"

This was to David, who was in the garden; and he hurried up.

"Go and order me a fly to come here directly."

"From the station, sir? It's over there all day now."

"From anywhere, only make haste."

"Yes, sir," said David; and he gave Tom a sharp look as much as to say, "Rather too much of a good thing to go over there twice." Then he fetched his coat and went off.

"Hallo! Walking?" cried Uncle Richard, coming out of the observatory. "Where's the chair?"

"Broken, smashed, thanks to this young scoundrel; and it's a mercy I'm alive. But I'll have no more of this."

Uncle James strode into the house, and his brother turned to Tom for an explanation, and had it.

"But he did not walk back all the way?"

"Every step, uncle, and didn't seem to mind it."

"Humph!" ejaculated Uncle Richard, frowning, as he locked up the yard gate and followed his brother into the house.

Half-an-hour later Mrs Fidler announced dinner, when Uncle James came down looking black as thunder, and answered his brother in monosyllables, refusing to speak once to Tom, at whom he scowled heavily.

"I'm sorry you had such an upset, James," said Uncle Richard at last.

"Thank you," was the cold reply.

"But I don't think you are any the worse for it."

"Thank you!" said Uncle James again, but more shortly.

"Tom, my lad, tell David as soon as dinner is over to borrow the Vicar's cart, and go to the sand-pit and fetch the broken chair."

"David has gone to the station, uncle," said Tom.

"Station? What for?"

"Uncle sent him for the fly."

"Fly?"

"Yes, sir," said Uncle James. "I sent your gardener for the fly, and if there's any charge for his services I will pay him. I see I have outstayed my welcome, and the sooner I am off the better."

"My dear James, don't be absurd," said Uncle Richard. "What you say is childish."

"Of course, sir; sick and helpless men are always childish."

"There, don't take it like that. Tom assures me it was an accident. If you are upset by it, let me send for the doctor to see you."

"Thank you; I'll send for my own doctor as soon as I get back to town."

"You're not going back to town to-day," said Uncle Richard, smiling.

"We shall see about that," said Uncle James, rising from his place, for the dinner was at an end, and walking firmly enough out of the room.

Uncle Richard frowned and looked troubled. Mrs Fidler looked at Tom, and as soon as they were alone she began to question him, and heard all.

"Well," she said, "I'm not going to make any remarks, my dear, it isn't my duty; but I will say this, I don't like to see your dear uncle imposed upon even by his brother, and I hope to goodness Mr James will keep his word, for I don't believe you upset him on purpose."

Uncle James did keep his word, for an hour later he was in the fly with his portmanteau on his way to the station.

"And never give me so much as a shilling, Master Tom, and me been twice to fetch that fly. If he wasn't your uncle, sir, I'd call him mean. But what did you say? I'm to fetch the chair, as is lying broken at the big sand-pit?"

"Yes, in Mr Maxted's cart."

"Did it fall over?"

"Yes, right over, down the slope from top to bottom."

"And him in it, sir?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll forgive him, and young Mr Sam Brandon too. My word, sir, I'd ha' give something to ha' been there to see."

"But he must have hurt himself, David."

"What there, sir? Tchah! that sand's as soft as silk. Wouldn't like to come and help fetch the chair, sir?"

"Yes, I should, David; I should like the ride."

"Then come on, sir, and we'll go round the other way from the Vicarage gates. Right from top to bottom, eh, sir? Well, I would have give something to ha' been there to see."



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

"Humph!" ejaculated Uncle Richard, as he finished his inspection of the bath-chair just taken out of the Vicar's cart. "See that the carrier calls for it, David, to take it back to Guildford; and you, Tom, write for me to the man it was hired from, pointing out that we have had an accident, and tell him to send in his bill."

"And it'll be a big 'un, Master Tom," said David, chuckling and rubbing his hands as soon as his master was out of hearing. "My word, it's got it, and no mistake. One wheel right off, the front all twissen, and the axle-tree bent. It'll be like making a new 'un. Tck!"

"You wouldn't laugh like that, David, if you'd got it to pay for," said Tom.

"True for you, Master Tom; but I wasn't laughing at the ravage, but at the idee of your uncle, who creeps about thinking he's very bad when he arn't thinking o' nothing else, going spinning down the hill, and steering hisself right into the old sand-pit."

"And I don't see that you have anything to laugh at in that," said Tom stiffly.

"More don't I, Master Tom, but I keep on laughing all the more, and can't help it. Now if he had been very badly, I don't think I could ha' done it."

"My uncle is very ill, and came down here for the benefit of his health," said Tom sternly.

"Then your nursing, Master Tom, and my vegetables and fruit's done him a lot o' good, for the way he walked home after being spilt did us a lot o' credit. I couldn't ha' walked better."

Tom thought the same, though he would not say so, but helped the gardener place the wrecked chair in the coach-house, and then found his uncle coming that way.

"Get the wheelbarrow, Tom," he said, "and we'll take the new discs of glass into the workshop."

"And begin again, uncle?" cried Tom excitedly.

"What, are you ready to go through all that labour again?"

"Ready, uncle?" cried the boy reproachfully. "Why, all the while Uncle James has been down here it has seemed to be like so much waste of time."

"Humph!" ejaculated Uncle Richard; "then we must work over hours to win back the loss. Help him on with the case carefully, David, and I'll go first to open the door."

"Say, Master Tom," said the gardener, "ain't it more waste o' time to go glass-grinding and making contrapshums like this? Hey, but it's precious heavy," he continued, as he helped to lift one end of the case on to the long barrow.

"Waste of time to make scientific instruments?" cried Tom.

"Ay. What's the good on it when it's done?"

"To look at the sun, moon, and stars, to be sure."

"Well, you can do that without tallow-scoops, sir; and you take my advice, don't you get looking at the sun through none o' them things, sir. Hey, but it be a weight!" he continued, raising the handles of the barrow.

"Never mind; I can manage it," cried Tom.

"Then I arn't going to let you, sir."

"Why not?"

"'Cause my muskles is hard and yours is soft, and may get stretched and strained. Hold that there door back. It's all up-hill, you know; master never thought o' that."

David wheeled the heavy case up to the door of the old mill, helped to carry the case in, and then in a whisper said—

"Let's have a look at him when you've done, Master Tom."

"Look at whom?" said the boy wonderingly.

"Man in the moon," replied David, with a chuckle, as he trotted back with the barrow, and Uncle Richard came down from the observatory to take out the screws and unpack the two discs.

Within an hour they were at work again, and day after day passed—wasted days, David said.

"Master and you had a deal better set to work and build me a vinery to grow some more grapes," he grumbled; but Tom laughed, and the speculum gradually began to assume its proper form.

There had only been one brief letter in answer to two sent making inquiries, and this letter said that Uncle James was much better, and regularly attending the office.

"My vegetables," said David, when he was told. "Nothing like 'em, and plenty o' fresh air, Master Tom, to set a man right. But just you come and look here."

He led the way down the garden to where, the Marie Louise pear-tree spread its long branches upon the wall, each laden with the soft green fruit hanging to the long thin stalks, which looked too fragile to bear so great a weight.

"Pears?" said Tom. "Yes, I was looking at them yesterday, and thinking how good they must be."

"Nay, but they am't, Master Tom; that's just it. If you was to pick one o' they—which would be a sin, sir—and stick your teeth into it, you'd find it hard and tasting sappy like chewed leaves."

"Why I thought they were ripe."

"Nay, not them, sir. You want to take a pear, sir, just at the right moment."

"And when is the right moment for a pear?"

David laughed, and shook his head.

"Tends on what sort it is, sir. Some's at their best in September, and some in October. Then you goes on to December and January, and right on to April. Why the round pears on that little tree yonder don't get ripe till April and May. Like green bullets now, but by that time, or even June, if you take care on 'em, they're like brown skins' full o' rich sugary juice."

"But these must be ripe, David."

"Nay, sir, they're not. As I told you afore, if you pick 'em too soon they srivels. When they're quite ripe they're just beginning to turn creamy colour like."

"Well, they're a very nice lot, David."

"Yes, sir; and what am I to do?"

"Let 'em hang."

"I wish I could, sir, but I feel as if I dursn't."

"Dare not! Why?"

"Fear they might walk over the wall."

"What, be stolen?"

"Ay, my lad. I come in at that gate at six this morning, and was going gently down the centre walk, when it was like having a sort o' stroke, for there was a head just peeping over the wall."

"A stranger?"

"I couldn't quite see, sir; but I'm 'most ready to swear as it was Pete Warboys, looking to see if they was ready to go into his pockets."

"Then let's pick them at once," cried Tom.

"Dear lad, what is the use o' my teaching of you," said David reproachfully. "Don't I keep on telling o' you as they'd srivel up; and what's a pear then? It ain't as if it was a walnut, where the srivel's a ornyment to the shell."

"Then let's lie wait for my gentleman with a couple o' sticks."

David's wrinkled face expanded, and his eyes nearly-closed.

"Hah! Now you're talking sense, sir," he said, in a husky whisper, as if the idea was too good to be spoken aloud. "Hazel sticks, sir—thick 'uns?"

"Hazel! A young scoundrel!" cried Tom.

"Nay, he's an old 'un, sir, in wickedness."

"Hazel is no good. I'd take old broomsticks to him," cried Tom indignantly. "Oh, I do hate a thief."

"Ay, sir, that comes nat'ral, 'speshly a thief as comes robbin' of a garden. House-breakers and highwaymen's bad enough; but a thief as come a-robbin' a garden, where you've been nussin' the things up for years and years—ah! there's nothing worse than that."

"You've got some old birch brooms, David," cried Tom, without committing himself to the gardener's sentiments.

"Birch, sir? Tchah! Birch would only tickle him, even if we could hit him on the bare skin."

"Nonsense! I didn't mean the birch, I meant the broomsticks."

"Oh, I see!" said David. "But nay, nay, sir, that wouldn't do. You see, when a man's monkey's up he hits hard; and if you and me ketched Pete Warboys over in our garden, and hit as hard as we could, we might break him; and though I says to you it wouldn't be a bit o' consequence, that there old rampagin' witch of a granny of his would come up here cursing every one, and making such filliloo that there'd be no bearing it."

"Well, that wouldn't harm anybody."

"I dunno, sir; I dunno," said David thoughtfully.

"Why, David, you don't believe in witches and ill-wishing, and all that sort of stuff, do you?"

"Me, sir?" cried the gardener; "not likely. But it's just as well to be the safe side o' the hedge, you know, in case there might be something in it."

Tom laughed, and David shook his head solemnly.

"Why, I believe you do believe in it all," said Tom.

"Nay, sir, I don't," cried the old fellow indignantly; "and don't you go saying such things."

"Ha—ha—ha!" laughed Tom.

"Ah, you may laugh, sir; but Parson Maxted's handsome young Jarsey cow did die."

"Well, all cows die some time," cried Tom.

"Ay, sir, that's true; but not after old Mother Warboys has stood cussin' for ever so long about the milk."

"And did she?"

"Ay, that she did, sir, right in the middle o' the road, because the cook give her yes'day's skim-milk instead o' to-day's noo."

Tom laughed again.

"I say, what about the pears?"

"Ay, what about the pears? You wouldn't come down in the dark and keep watch."

"Wouldn't I!" cried Tom excitedly.

"Besides, we might ketch him, and him fly at you."

"I wish he would," said Tom.

"And then it would be in the dark."

"Of course."

"Not till late at night, perhaps."

"Well, what of that?"

"And maybe he wouldn't come in the night at all, but steal over the wall just before it gets light, when you'd be in your bed. Yes, that's just the sort of time when he would come."

"I should have to ask uncle to let me sit up with you, David."

"Ah, I thought that would be it," said David; "ask your uncle."

"Look here, David," cried Tom, flushing. "I shouldn't say I'd like to come if I didn't mean it. I'm not going to get into trouble by slipping out on the sly."

"It's all over," said David. "I thought so. Master'd never let you sit up and watch, sir. I thought you wouldn't."

"Well, we'll soon prove that," cried Tom. "Here is uncle."

"Yes; what is it?" said Uncle Richard, coming across the garden.

"David's afraid of the pears being stolen, uncle, for he saw some one examining them this morning, and he's going to sit up to-night and watch. Do you mind my sitting up too?"

"Sitting up? No, I think not, Tom, only mind and don't get hurt. You are more likely to catch a thief at daybreak though, I should say."

"Mebbe, sir," said David; "but I think if you didn't mind I'd try to-night first."

"By all means, David. I should be sorry to lose those pears again."

"There!" cried Tom, as soon as they were alone; "do you think I want to back out now?"

David laughed, and rubbed his hands together between his knees.

"Come on, Master Tom, and I'll get the billhook. Then we'll go and cut a couple of good young hazel rods in the copse."

"Then you won't have broomsticks, David?"

"Nay, sir, they'd be too heavy and too stiff. I know the sort—good stout young hazels as won't break when you hit with 'em, but wrop well round."

The hazels were cut and carried back to the garden, burdened with their twigs and greenery.

"He might be about, and think they was meant for him, if we trimmed 'em into sticks, Master Tom. He won't think anything if he sees 'em like this."

The hazels were shortened to a convenient length as soon as they were in the garden, David chuckling loudly the while.

"I owe that chap a lot, Master Tom, and if I can get a chance I mean to pay him this time. Hit low, sir, if you get a crack at him."

"Not likely to hurt him," said Tom.

"More likely, sir. Trousers are thin, 'specially hisn, and they've got some good holes in 'em generally, where you might reach his skin; 'sides, you're not likely to cut his face or injure his eyes. Nothing like hitting low. Now, then, I'm going on with my reg'lar work, and as soon as it's dark I shall be down here in among the blackcurrants, with a couple of old sacks and a horse-cloth, for us to sit on, so as not to ketch rheumatics."

"About what time?" said Tom.

"Arpus eight, sir. There's no moon to-night so it'll be pretty dark; but we shall hear him."

"If he comes," said Tom.

"Course, sir, if he comes. But we'll chance that, and if he don't, why we shall know as my pears is safe."



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

Tom Blount did not make a very good tea that evening, for he was excited by thoughts of the coming watch.

He was not in the least afraid, but his face felt flushed, and there was a curious tingling in the nerves which made him picture a scene in the garden, in which he was chasing Pete Warboys round and round, getting a cut at him with the stick from time to time, and at last making him turn at bay, when a desperate fight ensued.

It seemed a long time too till half-past eight, and though he took up a book of natural history full of interest, it seemed to be as hard reading as Tidd's Practice, in Gray's Inn.

"Seat uncomfortable, Tom?" said his uncle at last.

"No, uncle," said the boy, colouring. "Why?"

"Because you can't sit still. Oh, I understand. You are thinking of going out to watch."

"Yes, uncle."

"Humph! More than the pears are worth, Tom."

"Do you think so, uncle?"

"Decidedly. But there, the thief deserves to be caught—and thrashed; but don't be too hard upon him."

Tom brightened up at this, and looked at the clock on the mantel-piece.

"Why, it's stopped," he said.

"Stopped? Nonsense," said Uncle Richard, looking at his watch.

"But it must have stopped. I don't think it has moved lately."

"The clock is going all right, Tom, but not so fast as your desires. There, try a little patience; and don't stop after ten. If the plunderer is not here by that time he will not come to-night—if he comes at all."

"Very well, uncle," said Tom, and after another glance at the clock, which still did not seem to move, he settled down with his head resting upon his fists, to study the giraffe, of which there was a large engraving, with its hide looking like a piece of the map of the moon, the spots being remarkably similar to the craters and ring-plains upon the moon's surface, while the giraffe itself, with its long sprawling legs, would put him in mind of Pete Warboys. Then he read how it had been designed by nature for its peculiar life in the desert, and so that it could easily reach up and crop the leaves of trees from fifteen to twenty feet above the ground; but it did not, as he pictured it in his mind, seem to be picking leaves, but Marie Louise pears, while David was creeping up behind with his elastic hazel stick, and—

Ting.

Half-past eight by the dining-room clock, and Tom sprang up.

"Going, my boy?"

"Yes, uncle, David will be waiting."

Uncle Richard nodded, and taking his cap and the hazel stick he had brought in, the boy went out silently, to find that it was a very soft dark night—so dark, in fact, that as soon as he had stepped on to the lawn he walked into one of the great bushes of laurustinus, and backed out hurriedly to reconsider which was the way. Then he stepped gently forward over the soft damp grass of the lawn, with his eyes now growing more accustomed to the darkness.

Directly after there was a low whistle heard.

"Where are you, David?"

"Here, sir. Come down between the raspberries."

"Where are they, David? All right, I see now," whispered Tom, and he stepped as far as he could across the flower-bed, which ran down beside the kitchen-garden, and the next minute felt the gardener's hand stretched out to take his.

"Got your stick, sir?"

"Yes; all right. He hasn't come then yet."

"Not yet, sir. Here you are; now you can kneel down alongside o' me. Mustn't be no more talking."

Tom knelt on the soft horse-cloth, feeling his knees indent the soil beneath; and then with his head below the tops of the black-currant bushes, whose leaves gave out their peculiar medicinal smell, he found that though perfectly hidden he could dimly make out the top of the garden wall, where the pears hung thickly not many feet away, and the watchers were so situated that a spring would take them into the path, close to any marauder who might come.

"One moment, David," whispered Tom, "and then I won't speak again. Which way do you think he'll come?"

"Over the wall from the field, and then up along the bed, so as his feet arn't heard. If I hear anything I nips you in the leg. If you hear anything, you nips me."

"Not too hard," said Tom, and the watch began.

At first there was the rattle of a cart heard coming along the road, a long way off, and Tom knelt there sniffing the odour of the blackcurrants, and trying to calculate where the cart would be. But after a time that reached the village and passed on, and the tramp of the horse and the rattle of the wheels died out.

Then he listened to the various sounds in the village—voices, the closing of doors, the rattle of shutters; and all at once the church clock began to strike, the nine thumps on the bell coming very slowly, and the last leaving a quivering, booming sound in the air which lasted for some time.

After this all was very still, and it was quite a relief to hear the barking of a dog from some distance away, followed by the faintly-heard rattle of a chain drawn over the entrance of the kennel, when the barking ceased, and repeated directly after as the barking began again.

Everything then was wonderfully still and dark, till a peculiar cry arose—a weird, strange cry, as of something in pain, which thrilled Tom's nerves.

"Rabbit?" he whispered.

"Hedgehog," grumbled David hoarsely; "don't talk."

Silence again for a minute or two, and the peculiar sensation caused by the cry of the bristly animal still hung in Tom's nerves, when there was another noise which produced a thoroughly different effect, for a donkey from somewhere out on the common suddenly gave vent to its doleful extraordinary bray, ending in a most dismal squeaking yell, suggestive of all the wind being out of its organ.

Tom smiled as he knelt there, wondering how Nature could have given an animal so strange a cry, as all was again still, till voices arose once more in the village; some one said "Good-night!" then a door banged, and, pat pat, he could hear faintly retiring steps, "Good-night" repeated, and then close to his elbow—

Snor-rr-re.

"David!" he whispered, as he touched the gardener on the shoulder—"David!"

"Arn't better taters grow'd, I say, and—Eh? Is he comed?"

"No! Listen," said Tom, thinking it as well not to allude to his companion's lapse.

"Oh ay, I'm a-listenin', sir, with all my might," whispered the gardener; "but I don't think it's him yet. Wait a bit, and we'll nab him if he don't mind."

Silence again for quite ten minutes, and then David exclaimed—

"Wuph!" and lurched over sidewise up against his companion, but jerked himself up again, and said in a gruff whisper full of reproach, "Don't go to sleep, Master Tom."

"No. All right, I'm awake," replied the boy, laughing to himself, and the watching went on again, the time passing very slowly, and the earth which had felt so soft beneath the knees gradually turning hard.

There was not a sound to be heard now, till the heavy breathing on his left suggested that David was dozing off again, and set him thinking that one was enough to keep vigil, and that he could easily rouse his companion if the thief came.

He felt a little vexed at first that David, who had been so eager to watch, should make such a lapse; but just in his most indignant moments, when he felt disposed to give a sudden lurch sidewise to knock the gardener over like a skittle, and paused, hesitating, he had an admonition, which showed him how weak human nature is at such times, in the shape of a sudden seizure. One moment he was wakeful and thinking, the next he was fast asleep, dreaming of being back at Gray's Inn— soundly asleep, in fact.

This did not last while a person could have counted ten. Then he was wide-awake again, ready to continue the watch, and let David rest.

"It's rum though," he said to himself, as he crouched there, and now softly picked a leaf to nibble, and feel suggestions of taking a powder in a spoonful of black-currant jelly, so strong was the flavour in the leaf. "Very rum," he thought. "One's wide-awake, and the next moment fast asleep."

He started then, for he fancied that he heard a sound, but though he listened attentively he could distinguish nothing; and the time went on, with David's breathing growing more deep and heavy; and upon feeling gently to his left, it was to find that the gardener was now right down with his elbows on the ground and his face upon his hands.

"Any one might come and clear all the pears away if I were not here."

But Tom felt very good-humoured over the business, as he thought of certain remarks he would be able to make to the gardener next day; and he was running over this, and wishing that some one would come to break the monotonous vigil, when there was the sound of a door opening up at the cottage, and then steps on the gravel path. Directly after Uncle Richard's voice was heard.

"Now, Tom, my lad, just ten o'clock; give it up for to-night. Where are you?"

Before Tom could make answer there was a quick movement on his left, an elbow was jerked into his ribs, and David exclaimed in a husky whisper—

"Now, my lad, wake up. Here's your uncle."

"Yes, uncle, here!" cried Tom, as he clapped his hand to his side.

"Well, have you got him?"

"Nay, sir," said David; "nobody been here to-night, but I shall ketch him yet."

"No, no, be off home to bed," said Uncle Richard.

"Bime by, sir. I'll make it twelve first," said David.

"No," cried Uncle Richard decisively. "It is not likely that any one will come now."

"Then he'll be here before it's light," said David.

"Perhaps, but we can't spare time for this night work. Home with you," cried Uncle Richard.

"Tell you what then, sir, I'll go and lie down for an hour or two, and get here again before it's light."

"Very well," said Uncle Richard. "I'll fasten the gate after you. Good-night. No: you run to the gate with him, Tom."

"All right, uncle," cried the boy; and then, "Oh my! how stiff my knees are. How are yours, David?" he continued, as they walked to the gate.

"Bit of a touch o' rheumatiz in 'em, sir. Ground's rayther damp. Good-night, sir. We'll have him yet."

"Good-night," said Tom. "But I say, David, did you have a good nap?"

"Good what, sir? Nap? Me have a nap? Why, you don't think as I went to sleep?"

"No, I don't think so," cried Tom, laughing.

"Don't you say that now, sir; don't you go and say such a word. Come, I do like that: me go to sleep? Why, sir, it was you, and you got dreaming as I slep'. I do like that."

"All right, David. Good-night."

Tom closed the gate, and ten minutes later he was in bed asleep.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

The church clock was striking six when Tom awoke, sprang out of bed, and looked out of the window, to find a glorious morning, with everything drenched in dew.

Hastily dressing and hurrying down, he felt full of reproach for having overslept himself, his last thought having been of getting up at daybreak to continue the watch with David.

There were the pears hanging in their places, and not a footprint visible upon the beds; and there too were the indentations made by two pairs of knees in the black-currant rows, while the earth was marked by the coarse fibre of the sacks.

But the dew lay thickly, and had not been brushed off anywhere, and it suddenly struck Tom that the black-currant bushes would not be a favourable hiding-place when the light was coming, and that David must have selected some other.

"Of course: in those laurels," thought Tom, and he went along the path; but the piece of lawn between him and the shrubs had not been crossed, and after looking about in different directions, Tom began to grin and feel triumphant, for he was, after all, the first to wake.

In fact it was not till half-past seven that the gardener arrived, walking very fast till he caught sight of Tom, when he checked his speed, and came down the garden bent of back and groaning.

"Morning, Master Tom, sir. Oh, my back! Tried so hard to drag myself here just afore daylight."

"Only you didn't wake, David," cried Tom, interrupting him. "Why, you ought to have been up after having such a snooze last night in the garden."

"I won't have you say such a word, sir," cried David angrily. "Snooze! Me snooze! Why, it was you, sir, and you're a-shoving it on to me, and—"

David stopped short, for he could not stand the clear gaze of Tom's laughing eyes. His face relaxed a little, and a few puckers began to appear, commencing a smile.

"Well, it warn't for many minutes, Master Tom."

"An hour."

"Nay, sir, nay; not a 'our."

"Quite, David; and I wouldn't wake you. I say, don't be a sham. You did oversleep yourself."

"Well, I s'pose I did, sir, just a little."

"And now what would you say if I told you that Pete has been and carried off all the pears?"

"What!" yelled David; and straightening himself he ran off as hard as he could to the Marie Louise pear-tree, but only to come back grinning.

"Nay, they're all right," he said. "But you'll come and have another try to-night?"

"Of course I will," said Tom; and soon after he hurried in to breakfast.

That morning Tom was in the workshop, where for nearly two hours, with rests between, he had been helping the speculum grinding. Uncle Richard had been summoned into the cottage, to see one of the tradesmen about some little matter of business, and finding that the bench did not stand quite so steady as it should, the boy fetched a piece of wood from the corner, and felt in his pocket for his knife, so as to cut a wedge, but the knife was not there, and he looked about him, feeling puzzled.

"When did I have it last?" he thought. "I remember: here, the day before the speculum was broken. I had it to cut a wedge to put under that stool, and left it on the bench."

But there was no knife visible, and he was concluding that he must have had it since, and left it in his other trousers' pocket, when he heard steps, and looking out through the open door, he saw the Vicar coming up the slope from the gate.

"Good-morning, sir," said Tom cheerily.

"Good-morning, Thomas Blount," was the reply, in very grave tones, accompanied by a searching look. "Is your uncle here?"

"No, sir," said Tom wonderingly; "he has just gone indoors. Shall I call him?"

"Yes—no—not yet."

The Vicar coughed to clear his throat, and looked curiously at Tom again, with the result that the lad felt uncomfortable, and flushed a little.

"Will you sit down, sir?" said Tom, taking a pot of rough emery off a stool, and giving the top a rub.

"Thank you, no."

The Vicar coughed again to get rid of an unpleasant huskiness, and then, as if with an effort—

"The fact is, Thomas Blount, I am glad he is not here, for I wish to say a few words to you seriously. I did mean to speak to him, but this is better. It shall be a matter of privacy between us, and I ask you, my boy, to treat me not as your censor but as your friend—one who wishes you well."

"Yes, sir, of course. Thank you, sir, I will," said Tom, who felt puzzled, and grew more and more uncomfortable as he wondered what it could all mean, and finally, as the Vicar remained silent, concluded that it must be something to do with his behaviour in church. Then no, it could not be that, for he could find no cause of offence.

"I know," thought Tom suddenly. "He wants me to go and read with him, Latin and Greek, I suppose, or mathematics."

The Vicar coughed again, and looked so hard at Tom that the boy felt still more uncomfortable, and hurriedly began to pull down his rolled-up shirt-sleeves and to button his cuffs.

"Don't do that, Thomas Blount," said the Vicar, still more huskily; "there is nothing to be ashamed of in honest manual labour."

"No, sir, of course not," said the lad, still more uncomfortable, for it was very unpleasant to be addressed as "Thomas Blount," in that formal way.

"I often regret," said the Vicar, "that I have so few opportunities for genuine hard muscular work, and admire your uncle for the way in which he plunges into labour of different kinds. For such work is purifying, Thomas Blount, and ennobling."

This was all very strange, and seemed like the beginning of a lecture, but Tom felt better, and he liked the Vicar—at least at other times, but not now.

"Will you be honest with me, my lad?" said the visitor at last.

"Oh yes, sir," was the reply, for "my lad" sounded so much better than formal Thomas Blount.

"That's right. Ahem!"

Another cough. A pause, and Tom coloured a little more beneath the searching gaze that met his.

"Were you out last night?" came at last, to break a most embarrassing silence.

"Yes, sir."

"Out late?"

"Yes, sir; quite late."

"Humph!" ejaculated the Vicar, who looked now very hard and stern. "One moment—would you mind lending me your knife?"

"My knife!" faltered Tom, astounded at such a request; and then, in a quick, hurried way—"I'm so sorry, sir, I cannot. I was looking for it just now, but I've lost it."

"Lost it? Dear me! Was it a valuable knife?"

"Oh no, sir, only an old one, with the small blade broken."

"Would you mind describing it to me?"

"Describing it, sir? Of course not. It had a big pointed blade, and a black and white bone handle."

"And the small blade broken, you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"Had it any other mark by which you would know it? Knives with small blades broken are very general."

"No, sir, no other mark. Oh yes, it had. I filed a T and a B in it one day, but it was very badly done."

"Very, Thomas Blount," said the Vicar, taking something from his breast-pocket. "Is that your knife?"

"Yes," cried Tom eagerly, "that's it! Where did you find it, sir? I know; you must have taken it off that bench by mistake when uncle showed you round."

"No, Thomas Blount," said the Vicar, shaking his head, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the lad; "I found it this morning in my garden."

"You couldn't, sir," cried Tom bluntly. "How could it get there?"

The Vicar gazed at him without replying, and Tom added hastily—

"I beg your pardon, sir. I meant that it is impossible."

"The knife asserts that it is possible, sir. Take it. A few pence would have bought those plums."

The hand Tom had extended dropped to his side.

"What plums, sir?" he said, feeling more and more puzzled.

"Bah! I detest pitiful prevarication, sir," cried the Vicar warmly. "The knife was dropped by whoever it was stripped the wall of my golden drops last night. There, take your knife, sir, I have altered my intentions. I did mean to speak to your uncle."

"What about?" said Uncle Richard, who had come up unheard in the excitement. "Good-morning, Maxted. Any one's cow dead? Subscription wanted?"

"Oh no," said the Vicar. "It must out now. I suppose some one's honour has gone a little astray."

"Then we must fetch it back. Whose? Not yours, Tom?"

"I don't know, uncle," said the boy, with his forehead all wrinkled up. "Yes, I do. Mr Maxted thinks I went to his garden last night to steal plums. Tell him I didn't, uncle, please."

"Tell him yourself, Tom."

"I can't," said Tom bluntly, and a curiously stubborn look came over his countenance. Then angrily—"Mr Maxted oughtn't to think I'd do such a thing."

The Vicar compressed his lips and wrinkled up his forehead.

"Well, I can," said Uncle Richard. "No, Maxted, he couldn't have stolen your plums, because he was out quite late stealing pears—the other way on."

"Uncle!" cried Tom, as the Vicar now looked puzzled.

"We apprehended a visit from a fruit burglar, and Tom here and my gardener were watching, but he did not come. Then he visited you instead?"

"Yes, and dropped this knife on the bed beneath the wall."

"Let me look," said Uncle Richard. "Why, that's your knife, Tom."

"Yes, uncle."

"How do you account for that? Policemen don't turn burglars."

"It seems I lost it, uncle. I haven't seen it, I think, since I had it to put a wedge under that leg of the stool."

"And when was that?"

"As far as I can remember, uncle, it was the day or the day before the speculum was broken. I fancy I left it on the window-sill or bench."

"Plain as a pike-staff, my dear Maxted," said Uncle Richard, clapping the Vicar on the shoulder. "You have had a visit from the gentleman who broke my new speculum."

"You suspected your nephew of breaking the speculum," said the Vicar.

"Oh!" cried Tom excitedly:

"Yes, but I know better now. You're wrong, my dear sir, quite wrong. We can prove such an alibi as would satisfy the most exacting jury. Tom was with me in my room until half-past eight, and from that hour to ten I can answer for his being in the garden with my man David."

"Then I humbly beg your nephew's pardon for my unjust suspicions," cried the Vicar warmly. "Will you forgive me—Tom?"

"Of course, sir," cried the boy, seizing the extended hand. "But you are convinced now, sir?"

"Perfectly; but I want to know who is the culprit. Can you help me?"

"We're trying to catch him, sir," said Tom.

"I'm afraid I know," said Uncle Richard.

"Yes, and I'm afraid that I know," said the Vicar, rather angrily. "I'll name no names, but I fancy you suspect the same body that I did till I found our young friend's knife."

"And if we or you catch him," said Uncle Richard, "what would you do— police?"

"No," said the Vicar firmly, "not for every scrap of fruit I have in the garden. I don't hold with imprisoning a boy, except as the very last resort."

"Give him a severe talking to then?" said Uncle Richard dryly.

"First; and then I'm afraid that I should behave in a very illegal way. But he is not caught yet."



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

The Vicar stopped and chatted, taking his seat upon the stool Tom had I before offered, and watched the process of making the speculum for some time before leaving, and then, shaking hands with Tom, he said, smiling—

"Shows how careful one ought to be in suspecting people, Tom Blount. We are none of us perfect. Good-bye."

"That's a hint for us, Tom," said Uncle Richard, as soon as they were alone. "Perhaps you are wrong about Master Pete Warboys too."

Tom thought about the pears thrown at Pete by his cousin, and shook his head.

"Pete wouldn't have been peeping over the wall, uncle, if he had not meant mischief."

"Perhaps not, Tom; but he may have meant mischief to you, and not to my pears."

Tom laughed, and they soon after went in to dinner.

That afternoon, and for an hour and a half in the evening, they worked again at the speculum by lamp-light, so that Tom was pretty tired when they gave up and returned to the cottage.

"Going to watch for the fruit burglar to-night, Tom?" asked Uncle Richard.

"Oh yes, uncle. I feel ten times as eager now Mr Maxted's plums have been stolen;" and, punctual to the moment, he stole down the garden, walking upon the velvety lawn, and advancing so silently upon David, that the gardener uttered a cry of alarm.

"Quite made me jump, Master Tom, coming on me so quiet like."

"I thought he might be hanging about," whispered back Tom. "Going to watch from the same place?"

"Ay, sir. Couldn't be better. Once we hear him at the pears we can drop upon him like two cats on a mouse."

"Yes," said Tom; "but we must mind and not scratch ourselves, David."

"Ay, we'll take care o' that, sir. But mind, no talking. Got your stick?"

"I stuck it upright in the second black-currant tree. Yes, here it is."

"That's right then, sir. There's your place, and I've got something better for you this time. I stuffed two sacks full o' hay, and you can sit down now like on a cushion, and pull the horse-cloth you'll find folded up over you."

"But what about you?"

"Oh, I've got one too, sir. I'm all right. Now then—mum!"

The hay made a faint sound as they both sat down after a glance round and listening intently. Then Tom pulled the horse-cloth up over his knees, for the night was chilly, and found it very warm and comfortable.

Then the various sounds from the village reached him—the barking of dogs, voices, the striking of the clock, the noise of wheels, the donkey's braying, with a regularity wonderfully like that of the previous night, and then all silence and darkness, and ears strained to hear the rustling sound which must be made by any one climbing over the wall.

The time glided on; and as it grew colder, Tom softly drew the rug cloak-fashion over his shoulders, listened to note whether David made any remark about the rustling sound he made, but all the gardener said was something which resembled the word ghark, which was followed by very heavy breathing.

"Gone to sleep again," said Tom to himself. "What's the good of his pretending to sit and watch?"

He secured his hazel, aimed for where his companion sat in the next alley between the blackcurrants, and gave him a poke with the point.

But this had not the slightest effect, and another and another were administered, but without the least result; and thinking that he would have to administer a smart cut to wake up his companion, Tom set himself to watch alone.

"Don't matter," he muttered. "I can manage just as well without him." And then he sat in the thick darkness, with his ears strained to catch the slightest noise, thinking over the Vicar's visit that day, and about how he would like to catch Master Pete.

It was very warm and comfortable inside the horse-cloth, and must have been close upon nine o'clock, but he had not heard it strike. David was breathing regularly, so loudly sometimes that Tom felt disposed to rouse him up; but each time the breathing became easier, and he refrained.

"I don't mind," thought Tom. "I dare say he is very tired, and I don't want to talk to him. He's company all the same, even if he is asleep. Wonder whether this speculum will turn out all right."

David was breathing very hard now, but if Pete came he would make too much noise in moving to notice the sound. Besides, he would not suspect that any one was watching out there in the darkness.

But the breathing was very loud now, and how warm and cosy and comfortable it was inside the rug! The hay, too, was very soft, and the stick all ready for Master Pete when he came. It would be so easy to hear him too, for David's heavy breathing, that was first cousin to a snore, now ceased, and the slightest sound made by any one coming—and then it was all blank.

How long?

Tom suddenly started up with but one thought that seemed to crush him.

"Why, I've been asleep!"

A feeling of rage against himself came over him, and then like a flash his thoughts were off in another direction, for, just in front, he could hear a rustling sound, as if some one was stirring leaves, and, stealing forward, he could just faintly see what appeared like a shadow busy at the Marie Louise pear-tree.

"Then he has come," thought Tom, as his hand closed upon the stick he still held. Softly letting the horse-cloth glide from his shoulders, he raised himself gently, feeling horribly stiff, but getting upon his legs without a sound.

And all the time there was the rustling, plucking sound going on at the tree upon the wall, as the shadow moved along it slowly.

All this was only a matter of moments, and included a thought which came to Tom's busy brain—should he try to awaken David?

"If I do," he felt, "there will be noise enough to scare the thief, and he'll escape."

There was no time to argue further with himself. He knew that he had been asleep, for how long he could not tell; but his heart throbbed as he felt that he had awakened just in the nick of time, and he was about to act.

Keeping in a stooping position, he crept forward foot by foot without making a sound, till he was on the edge of the walk which extended to right and left; beyond it there was about six feet of border, and then the wall with the tree, and almost within reach the figure, more plain to see now, as it bent down evidently searching upon the ground for fallen pears.

One stride—a stride taken quick as thought, with the stout hazel stick well raised in the air, just as the figure was stooping lowest. Then—

Whoosh! Thwack!

A stinging blow, given with all the boy's nervous force, as with a bound he threw all his strength into the cut.

"Yah!"

A tremendous yell, a rush, and before Tom could get more than one other stroke to tell, the pear-seeker was running along the soft border, evidently making for the far corner of the garden, where the fence took the place of the wall.

The chord is shorter than the arc; and this applies to walks in gardens as well as geometry, only people generally call that which amounts to the chord the short cut.

Tom took the short cut, so as to meet Pete, but in the darkness he did not pause to think. For a moment all was silent, and the enemy had evidently stopped to hide.

"But he must be close here," thought Tom, as he reached the end of the cross walk, past which he felt that the boy must come; and to startle him into showing where he was Tom made a sudden rush.

That rush was made too quickly; for he felt himself seized, and before he could do anything, whack! whack! came two cuts on one leg.

"Got yer then, have I?" was growled in his ear; and then came loudly, "Master Tom! here! sharp!"

"I am here," roared Tom. "What are you doing? Don't."

"Master Tom!"

"David! But never mind; look sharp! He's close to us somewhere. I saw him under the pear-tree, and got one cut at him."

"Got two cuts at him," growled David savagely. "I know yer did. That was me!"

"Halloo there! Tom! David! Got him?"

"Got him!" growled David. "Got it, you mean. Hi! Yes, sir. Here we are."

Uncle Richard was on the way down the path.

"What was the meaning of that yell I heard?" he said, as he drew near.

Neither replied.

"Do you hear, Tom? What was that noise?"

"It was a mistake, uncle," cried Tom, rubbing his leg.

"Mistake? I said that yell. Oh, here you are."

"Yes, uncle; it was a mistake. I hit David in the dark, and he holloaed out."

"And enough to make any one, warn't it, sir? Scythes and scithers, it was a sharp 'un!"

"I don't think it was any sharper than the two you hit me, David," said Tom, who was writhing a little as he rubbed.

"Why, you two have never been so stupid as to attack each other in the dark, have you?" said Uncle Richard.

"I'm afraid so, uncle. I saw something by the tree and heard a rustling, and I thought it must be Pete Warboys."

"But you should ha' spoke, sir," cried David, from over the other side now. "Mussy on us, you did hit hard."

"Yes; I thought it was Pete, and that he had come at last."

"Come at last!" grumbled David, as Uncle Richard stood silently shaking with laughter. "Why, he's been—"

Just then there was a scratching sound, a flash of light, and a match burned brightly beneath the wall. Then another was struck, throwing up David's figure against the pear-tree, as, shielding the burning splint with his hands, he held it quickly up and down.

"What are you doing?" said Uncle Richard, as Tom gave a stamp caused by the pain he felt.

"Looking for my pears, sir, as I was when young Master Tom come and hit me. There arn't a single one left."

"What!" cried Tom, forgetting the stinging of the cuts on his leg. "Oh, David, don't say they're all gone!"

"What shall I say then, sir?" grumbled David; and he then drew in his breath with a hissing sound, and began to rub too.

"Do you mean to say the pears have been stolen while you two were keeping watch?"

"I dunno, sir," grumbled David. "They're not here now; and I'll take half a davy as they was here at arpus eight."

"Then be off home to bed. Pretty watchmen, upon my word," cried Uncle Richard, as he turned off to go up to the house; "it's my belief that you have both been asleep."

"And I'm afraid that there's about as near the truth as any one can get, Master Tom," whispered David. "I must ha' been mortal tired to-night. But you needn't have hit a fellow quite so hard."

"That's what I feel, David; but being so stupid: that's worse than the stick."

"Well, I dunno 'bout that, sir," said David, still rubbing himself; "them hazels is werry lahstick, and you put a deal o' muskle into that first cut."

"Well," said Tom mournfully, "I did hit as hard as I could, David."

"You did, Master Tom, and no mistake. Feels to me it must have cut right in. But I don't like the master to talk like that. It arn't nice."

"Come, Tom! Fasten the gate!" shouted Uncle Richard.

"Yes, uncle; I'm coming. Now, David, off home."

"Yes, sir, I'm a-goin'; but after all this trouble to lose them pears. Oh, Master Tom, it's that there as makes me feel most sore!"

But David kept on rubbing himself gently all the same.

"Pretty pair, 'pon my word!" said Uncle Richard, as Tom came blinking into the light just as the clock was striking ten. "Then you couldn't keep awake?"

"No, uncle. I suppose I must have been very tired to-night."

"The Vicar's plums last night; my pears to-night. Humph! It's time that young fruit pirate was caught."



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

Tom thought the matter over for days as he worked at the speculum now approaching completion. He had met Pete Warboys twice, but the fellow looked innocency itself, staring hard and vacantly at him, who longed to charge him with the theft, but felt that he could not without better evidence.

Then a bright thought came as he was polishing away opposite his uncle, and using the finest emery.

"I know," he said to himself, and he waited impatiently to be at liberty, which was not until after tea.

"Going for a walk, Master Tom?" said David, whom he encountered in the lane.

"Yes; rather in a hurry now."

"Can't tell him yet, because I'm not sure," thought Tom; and he walked sharply away for the corner where he had left his uncle in the bath-chair, and all the memories of that day came back as the various familiar objects came in view.

"I wonder whether he's quite well again now," said the boy to himself; "but he can't have been so ill as he thought."

But his walk on that golden orange sunset evening had nothing whatever to do with his uncle, for, as soon as he reached the bend where the road began to slope, he struck off to the left in among the trees, trying hard to follow exactly the same track as that taken by Pete Warboys when he was pursued.

It was not easy, for the great lad had dodged about among the great fir-trees in quite a zigzag fashion. Still Tom followed the direction, with the scaly, pillar-like trunks looking golden-red in the horizontal rays of the sun, which cast their long shadows in wonderful array, till it seemed to the boy at last as if he were walking through a quivering golden mist barred with great strokes of purply black.

"I shan't get there before it begins to be dark," he thought, "for this can't last. Why, it's like a fiery furnace now burning on great iron bars." Then there was another change, for the dark-green rough fir-boughs began to be lit up overhead, and the forest looked brighter than ever.

A wood of fir-trees is a puzzling place, from the fact that in a mile or two, consequent upon their regular growth, you may find hundreds, perhaps thousands, of places exactly alike—the same-looking tall, red, scaly columns, the same distance apart, the same grey carpet of fir-needles, and the same grey rough-topped, mushroom-shaped fungi growing up and pushing the fir-needles aside to make room for them. Then too the great natural temple, with its dark column-supported roof, has a way of looking different at morning, noon, and eve; and as different again according to the state of the weather, so that though you may be pretty familiar with the place, it is a difficult task to find your way for the second time.

It was so now with Tom Blount. There was a spot in the wood for which he had aimed, and it seemed to be the easiest thing possible to go straight there; but the trees prevented any such straight course, and after a little dodging in and out the mind refuses to bear all the changes of course and repeat them to the traveller, who gradually grows more and more confused, and if he does not hit upon the spot he seeks by accident, in all probability he has to give it up for what people call a bad job.

"Here it is at last," said Tom to himself, after following, as he thought, exactly the course he had taken when he chased Pete Warboys for throwing stones at the bath-chair, and coming upon a rugged portion of the fir-wood.

"Bother! I made so sure it was," he muttered, for the opening he sought beside a great fir-tree was not there, and rubbing one of his ears with vexation, he stood looking round again, and down long vistas between the straight tree-trunks.

But no, there was not a sign of the spot he wanted, and the farther he went the more confused he grew. It was still gloriously bright overhead, but the dark bars of shadow were nearly all gone, and it looked as if darkness were slowly rising like a transparent mist out of the earth; one minute it was up to his knees, and then creeping up and up till the tree-trunks looked as if they were plunged in a kind of flood, while their upper portions were glowing as if on fire.

"I'll have one more try," thought Tom, "and then give it up till to-morrow morning. That's the best time, when you've got the whole day before you, and not the night. Let's see, what did uncle say about my getting to know a lot about optics and astronomy? Of course—I remember: it was nice to be a boy, for he was in the morning of life, and all the long bright day of manhood before him in which to work; and the pleasant evening in which to think of that work well done, before the soft gentle night fell, bringing with it the great peaceful sleep. How serious he looked when he said all that!"

These thoughts in the coming gloom of the autumn evening made Tom feel serious too. Then they passed away as he had that other try, and another, and another, pretty well a dozen before he made a rush for what he rightly assumed to be the north-east, and finally reached the road pretty well tired out.

It was before the sun was far above the horizon the next morning that Tom went out of the garden gate, and by the time he reached the spot where he had turned into the wood, and gone many yards in amongst the trees, he found the appearance of the place almost precisely the same as he had seen it on the previous evening. There was the roof of the natural temple all aglow, the dark bars across the tall boughs, and the shadows stretching far away crossing each other in bewildering confusion. But everything was reversed, and instead of the shadows creeping upwards they stole down lower and lower, till the roof of boughs grew dark and the carpet of soft fir-needles began to glow.

Then too, as he went south, the bright light came from his left instead of his right.

"How beautiful!" he thought. "How stupid it is to lie in bed so long when everything is so soft and fresh and bright in the morning. But then bed is so jolly snug and comfortable just then, and it is so hard to get one's eyes open. It's such a pity," he mused; "bed isn't much when one gets in first, but grows more and more comfortable till it's time to get up. I wish one could turn it right round."

These thoughts passed away, for there were squirrels about, and jays noisily resenting his visit, and shouting to each other in jay—"Here's a boy coming."

Then he caught sight of a magpie, after hearing its laughing call. A hawk flew out of a very tall pine in an opening, and strewn beneath there were feathers and bones suggestive of the hook-beaked creature's last meal.

But as he followed the track of the pursuit once more, he had that to take up his attention, till he felt sure that he must be close to the place he sought, but grew more puzzled than ever as he gazed right round him.

"It must be farther on," he muttered; and, starting once more, he stopped at the end of another fifty yards or so, to have a fresh look round down each vista of trees, which started from where he stood.

It was more open here, and in consequence a patch of bracken had run up to a goodly height, spreading its fronds toward the light, but there was nothing visible as Tom turned slowly upon his heels, till he was looking nearly straight back along the way he had come, and then, quick as thought, he dropped down amongst the bracken, and crept on hands and knees till, still sheltered by it, he could watch the object he had seen.

That object was Pete Warboys, who had suddenly risen up out of the earth, and stood yawning and stretching himself, ending by giving one of his shoulders a good rasp against a fir-tree.

"Why, he must have been sleeping there," thought Tom, "and I must have passed close to his hole. What an old fox he is. Hullo! there's the dog."

For the big mongrel suddenly appeared, and sprang up so as to place its paws upon its master's breast, apparently as a morning greeting. But this was not received in a friendly way.