"That's why he has brought me," said Tom, half aloud. "Halloo, where is he? Here! here! old boy, here!"

He was answered by a furious barking, and the dog sprang up into sight on the trunk of the big tree close up to its roots, barking furiously at him, and then turning and leaping down out of sight; while Tom felt as if all of a sudden his blood had begun to turn cold, and his legs beneath him had grown weak.

For a horrible thought had suddenly flashed across his mind, like a meteor over the field of the great telescope. He knew now the dumb language of the dog, and why it had fetched him; and as if to endorse his thought, there came from about a dozen yards away so wild and blood-curdling a yell, that for the moment he could not believe it to be the dog, but that it came from some one in mortal peril.



CHAPTER FIFTY.

That cry was "help!" in its meaning as plainly as if it had come from a human throat, and with eyes hot and dry, Tom dashed forward with his worst fears confirmed.

The tree had been blown over by the storm, and he knew it now. It was the great pine whose roots overhung Pete's cavern, and now the hollow which formed the entrance was filled up by the roots, the narrow passage closed, and at the bottom of a new pit formed in the sand, where the buried roots had been torn out and broken off, there was the dog, with jaws open, tongue out, and eyes starting, tearing away at the sand, which kept gliding back as fast as it was thrown out, evidently trying to rescue its master, who must have been buried there.

"Oh, you good old chap!" cried Tom, as he sprang to the side of the pit; and the dog, taking the words for encouragement, uttered a loud bark, and tore away at the sand with its fore feet and kicked it away with its hind at a tremendous rate, sending it flying in quite a mist.

Tom had grasped the situation thoroughly now, and felt that Pete must have been sleeping in his cave that night with his dog, when the tree, only held on one side, had given way, burying him. Then the dog had contrived to scratch its way out, leaving its master prisoned to lie there in darkness, while during all the next day and night the faithful companion for whom he had shown so little kindness had howled, and howled in vain, for help.

Tom saw it all now, and he sprang down into the hollow from which the pine roots had been torn, to begin cheering on the dog, and helping with all his might; till once more he turned cold; but it was with a far more terrible chill, as he felt that it was all those hours since Pete had been covered in. Worse, the position of the root indicated that one side had been driven right into the cave, the old roof, as it were, sinking down, and only one thing could have happened—the unfortunate occupant must have been crushed to death.

But the dog was animated by no such ideas. It knew that its master was below, and it panted, and growled, and snarled as it tore away at the sand.

Then a fresh idea struck Tom. He could do but little good; he must run for help, and bring men with shovels, a rope, levers, and an axe, for they would perhaps have to cut the unhappy prisoner free.

But no; he might be the means of the poor fellow losing his life if a spark still lingered. If he could only reach his face and uncover that before going for aid! And so he toiled on, scooping out the sand with both hands close by where the dog tore, for every now and then it buried its muzzle, snuffling and blowing, and raised it again to bark furiously.

"He knows," thought Tom; and he tore away with all his might down there upon his knees, close at the side of the dog, to whom he uttered a cheering word of encouragement, accompanied by a pat on the back.

But it was slow work, for every now and then the sand from above crumbled down, great pats dropped from amongst the roots as soon as that beneath was taken away, and at the end of half-an-hour a feeling of despair accompanied the deadly weariness that now attacked his arms and shoulders, and involuntarily Tom Blount uttered a piteous cry.

It was from the hopelessness of what he was doing that this cry escaped him, but the dog took it for one of encouragement, and it plunged its nose into the loose sand again, grew more and more excited as it tore away, and suddenly, to Tom's astonishment, head and shoulders disappeared, and it gradually struggled on till even the long thin tail disappeared.

Reaching down, the boy now found the sand come away more easily, and he was thrusting his arm in as far as it would go, when he felt the dog's cold nose against his hand; the dry sand seemed to boil up as he snatched back his arm, and directly after the dog worked itself out again, to stand barking with all its might, and then begin scratching once more.

After working a few minutes longer, Tom reached in again, and found that his hand moved about freely in one direction, but touched pieces of root in the other, and then he started back with a cry of horror, for down in a hollow between two pieces of root he felt a face.

The fear was only momentary. Then he was searching again, and this time easily touched the face, which was quite clear of sand, the roots above striding over it, so to speak, and, as he felt upward, proving to be some inches distant.

But the face was cold and still, and despair crept over the worker again. He fought it back though, tore away at the sand, and at the end of a few minutes had cleared an opening like a rabbit burrow, which he could see led right to the roots and must convey air.

Then with a tremendous burst of barking the dog made a plunge to get in, half filling the burrow before Tom could hold it back, when the intelligent beast stood with its tongue out, panting heavily, and seeming to question him with its eyes.

Tom thought for a moment, then he took off his neckerchief, pulled out his pocket-book, and tore out a leaf of paper, one side of which was covered with the names of the moon's craters.

"Come away," he cried to the dog, as he carefully stepped out on to the firm ground, the dog barking excitedly, but following him.

"Must stop and keep the hole open," thought Tom; and then, laying his paper on a tree-trunk, he wrote clearly:—

"Follow the dog to the fir-wood. Pete buried in sand. Bring help, shovels, axes, ropes.

"T.B."

He rolled this in his neckerchief, tied it round the dog's neck, and then stood pointing homeward.

"Go home!" he shouted; "fetch—fetch! Go home!"

The dog made no sound, but went off at a long loping gallop, Tom watching it till it was out of sight, and then cautiously creeping back into the hole to scoop away some of the sand which lay heaped round the burrow, to keep watch by one who he felt sure was dead.

All Pete's short-comings were forgotten as Tom sat there, feeling that he dare do no more for fear of loosening the sand, and bringing it trickling down like so much water; all he could think of then was, that a fellow-creature lay buried close to him mutely asking for help, and he wanted to convince himself that he had done everything possible in the way of giving that aid.

It was a difficult matter to mentally decide, and there were moments when he felt that he ought not to have trusted to the dog, but should have gone himself, for a dozen things might prevent help coming, even if the dog proved to be a trustworthy messenger.

So strong was this idea, that three times over he was on the point of starting off to run back; but each time just as he was rising, the sand came trickling down in a way which showed how soon the burrow would be closed up; and without air, now that the place had been opened, he felt that the last chance would be gone.

So Tom settled himself down to keep the burrow clear, trembling at times as he listened, faintly hoping that the words he spoke now and then might elicit a reply.

But he hearkened in vain, all was solemnly still save the calls of the birds, and the rustling made by the rabbits as they chased each other in and out among the pines. By and by a squirrel came racing up, caught sight of him, sprang to the nearest tree-trunk, dashed up it, and then out upon the first big horizontal bar, where it sat twitching its beautiful tail, scolding him angrily for intruding in what it looked upon as its own private property.

After a time too there was the cheery call of the nuthatch, and the busy little bird flitted into sight, to alight upon a pine-trunk, and begin creeping here and there, head up or head down, peering into every crack, and probing it in search of insects. A flock of jays, too, came jerking themselves into the tree-tops, displaying their black and white feathers, the china-blue patches upon their wings, and one in particular came quite near, setting up its soft loose crest, and showing its boldly-marked moustachios as it peered with first one light-blue eye, then with the other, at the motionless object seated in the sand-pit, wondering whether it was alive.

Tom saw all these things that morning, for in his excited state they were forced upon him, though all the time he seemed to be following his messenger through the wood, keeping up its long steady canter; now diving between two closely-growing trees, now bounding over a clump of bracken, and now seeming to catch one end of the neckerchief in a strand of blackberry thorn, at which the dog tugged till the silk was torn and freed. Again he saw the dog caught in this fashion, and soon after watched it reach the edge of the wood and bound down into the lane, where it soon after encountered a gipsy-like party, who caught sight of the dog's strange collar, and sought to stop it, and steal the letter, for which the dog fought fiercely, and finally escaped by leaping back into the wood and disappearing entirely, so that he could trace it no more.

All imagination, but as real to him as a troubled dream, till he stooped once more to clear the opening, and gaze in, shuddering, and afraid to break the awful stillness around.

Then he crouched again upon his knees to listen, and wonder whether the dog had reached Heatherleigh yet. Next whether it would ever have the intelligence to make its way there, and if it did, whether it would not pretty surely be chased away by David, who would for certain be the first to see it, and begin throwing stones.

"I wish I had thought of that before," muttered Tom despairingly; and as the time went on he despaired more and more of seeing the long-looked-for help arrive. For he told himself that he had been mad ever to dream of the dog proving a successful messenger, since, according to his calculation at last, there had been ample time for the journey to have been made thrice over.

It was of no use to shout for help or to whistle, for nobody ever came through these woods, save a poacher now and then by night, to set wires or traps for the rabbits; and at last in despair Tom felt that he must go.

Then hope came once more, as he thought better of the dog, for what greater intelligence could dumb beast have shown than, after struggling out of the cave, to have made its way not to its regular home, where it could only have appealed to the feeble old grandmother, but straight to one whom, though no friend, it had seen more than once with its master?

"See," he said to himself, "how, in spite of all driving away, the poor thing kept on coming back to the cottage, and how wonderfully it led me here, and worked by my side. He'll do it. I'm sure he will, and before long I shall see uncle coming."

Then the time wore on, till these hopes were dashed again, and a despairing fit of low spirits attacked the watcher. "It's of no use," he said, half aloud; "I must go;" and he bent over the still open hole, to try and think out some plan of keeping back the sand. But all in vain; he felt that there was no way. Either he must stop there to keep on scooping the place free every few minutes, or leave it to take its chance while he went for help.

"No, I can't," he cried; "it's throwing away the very last hope. I must stay. Oh, why does not some one come?"

Tom's face darkened now, for his over-strained imagination had painted a fresh picture—that of the miserable-looking cur somewhere close at hand, settled down in a hollow to deliberately gnaw the sandy bone. For it was too much to expect of a dog that, after perhaps starving for eight-and-forty hours, it would leave the meal for which it hungered, and go and deliver such a message as that upon which it was sent.

"Oh, how long! how long!" he groaned. "I could have gone there and back half-a-dozen times."

It was a moderate computation according to Tom's feelings, for it seemed to him half the day must have glided by in the agony he was suffering.

But it had not. Time had been going steadily on at its customary rate, in spite of the way in which the lad in his excitement had pushed on the hands of his mental clock.

"I must go," he cried at last, "or no help will come. That brute is somewhere close by, I'm sure. Here, hi!" he shouted; but there was no reply—no dog came bounding up; and after listening for a few minutes he began to whistle loudly, when his heart seemed suddenly to stop its beating as he leaned forward listening, for, faint and distant but quite clear, there came an answering whistle.

He whistled again, and he pressed his hand upon his breast, feeling half choked with emotion.

The signal was answered, and directly after there was a distant hail, followed by a joyous barking, and the dog came bounding up, to rush down into the hollow, thrust its sharp nose into the burrow, take it out, begin barking again, and then dash off once more among the clustering pine-trunks.

Tom whistled again, then hailed, was answered, hailed again, and sank down half choked by the emotion he felt, and hard pressed to keep back a burst of feeling which tried to unman him.

"This way! ahoy!" he yelled, as he leaped up out of the hole, himself once more. "Quick! help! ahoy!"

Then the dog tore up barking furiously, half wild with excitement, and directly after Tom caught sight of the Vicar, closely followed by his uncle; and then came David with a bundle of tools over his shoulder, followed at a short distance by the village bricklayer, the carpenter, and two more men.

At this a peculiar giddy feeling came over the watcher, there was a strange singing in his ears, and he stood there as if stunned.



CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.

"Where is he?" cried Uncle Richard. "Yes, I see!"

The words brought Tom back to himself, and he was as active again as the rest, his strange seizure having lasted only a few moments.

"Heaven grant that we are not too late!" said the Vicar. "Here, Tom, you had better keep the dog back."

"But you are sure some one is buried here?" said Uncle Richard.

"Yes; it is Pete Warboys—he has a kind of cave here. It's crushed in," Tom hastened to explain.

"If we try to dig him out we shall suffocate him," cried Uncle Richard, speaking as if he had no doubt of the boy living still. "Look here, carpenter—David, there is only one way: three of us must be here with a rope fastened to this great root, and three others must work at a branch yonder. We shall have great leverage then, and we may be able to turn the trunk right over."

"Want a screw-jack, sir," said the carpenter.

"We must make screw-jacks of ourselves," cried Uncle Richard. "You, David, take the axe and lop off a few of the branches that will be in our way; you, carpenter, saw off three or four of these roots as closely as you can; Tom, keep the hole open; Mr Maxted, keep the dog out of the way; I'll make fast the ropes."

Every one went to work at once as Uncle Richard fell back into his old way when he was a planter with a couple of hundred coolies under him, and acre after acre of primeval forest to clear before he could begin to cultivate the ground.

Then the dog barked furiously for a few moments, but at a word from Tom crouched panting with its tongue out and ears pricked, evidently satisfied with the efforts being made to release its master. The strokes of the axe fell thick and fast, the saw rasped through the wood, and dust and chips flew, while the forest echoed to the sounds of busy work.

Best part of an hour's hard toil, and then one side of the tree was fairly clear; the ropes were tied to root and branch projecting at right angles, and the ends passed round tree-trunks.

"Now then!" said Uncle Richard. "Ready?"

"Hadn't we better haul straight, sir?" cried the carpenter. "It'll give us more power."

"No," said Uncle Richard; "the pulling will be harder, but we can hold inch by inch this way, and make fast the ropes when we have turned the trunk over."

"Right, sir," said the man.

Then the word was given, and after a glance to see that the burrow was still open, Tom seized the end of the rope, to add his bit of weight, wondering the while whether they would injure the poor fellow beneath, but pretty well satisfied that they were pulling right away.

The tree creaked and moved, some smaller branches snapped, but no good was done.

"All together again," cried Uncle Richard; and they panted and hauled, but all in vain.

"Off with that rope from the branch," cried Uncle Richard.

This was done, and it was then made fast to another projecting root, so that all could pull at the one end.

Again the word was given, but there was no result, and after a couple more tries the task seemed hopeless, when Tom seized the saw, and began to cut at a piece of root which he had seen rise a little and move some sand.

"Hah, that's right," cried the Vicar; "that's a sound root, and holds the tree down."

In five minutes the saw was through, and once more all began to haul, when the great tree seemed to give, turning over slowly like a wheel, and amidst shouts and cheers, and a furious burst of barking from the dog, the mass turned more and more, till the whole tree, with its vast root, had made a complete revolution; and when the ropes had been made fast, to secure it, there was the great hollow clear, but the sand had gone down with a rush, and the burrow was covered in.

Tom did not wait for the trunk to be secured, for he had seen the result.

"Don't, boy, don't," shouted the Vicar; "the tree may come back and crush you."

"Let it!" muttered Tom between his teeth, as he dropped upon his knees, scooping away at the sand, helped now by the dog, which began to be too useful, and got in the way. All the same though, by the time the tree was fast the sand had been swept from Pete Warboys' face; and David and Uncle Richard stooping and passing their hands beneath him, very little effort was required to draw him right out of the hole, and up among the pine-trees, where he was laid gently down, amid a profound silence, while Uncle Richard knelt beside him, and the dog, after a furious volley of barks, began to snuffle at its master's face.

"Dead?" whispered the Vicar, as Uncle Richard carefully made his examination, just as he had many a time played medicine-man or surgeon to a sick or injured coolie.

He made some answer, but it was drowned by the dog, which threw up its head and uttered a mournful howl, while a feeling of awe made those around look on in silence.

"You are in too great a hurry, my good friend," said Uncle Richard then, as he turned to the dog. "There's a little life in your master yet, but one arm is broken, and I'm afraid that he is badly crushed."

Tom drew a breath full of relief, while his uncle rose to his feet.

"I think, Maxted, if you will go on first, and warn his grandmother, and have a bed ready, and also get the doctor there, we will make a litter of a couple of poles and some fir-boughs, and carry him home. It would be better for you to go to the old woman than for Tom."

"Yes," said the Vicar, who set aside his regular quiet, sedate bearing, and ran off through the wood at a sharp trot.

"Out with your knife, Tom," cried Uncle Richard; "cut a piece three feet long off one of those ropes, and unravel it into string."

Tom set to work, while the carpenter cut off a couple of straight fir-boughs, which David trimmed quickly with the axe, and a few cross-pieces were sawn off about thirty inches long.

Then Tom stared in wonder to see how rapidly his uncle bound the short pieces of wood across the long, afterwards weaving in small pieces of the green fir, and forming a strong, fairly soft litter.

"Not the first time by many, Tom," he said. "Accidents used to be frequent in clearing forest in the East. There: that will do. Now for our patient."

He knelt down beside Pete, placed a bough of thickly-clothed fir beneath the injured arm, and then closely bound all to the boy's side.

"More harm is often done to a broken limb by letting it swing about," he said, "than by the fracture itself. Now four of us together. Pass your hands beneath him, enlace your fingers, and when I give the word, all lift."

This was done, Pete deposited upon the litter, and secured there by one of the ropes, after which he was carefully borne to his grandmother's cottage, where the doctor was already waiting, and the old woman, tramping about stick in hand, looking as if prepared to attack her visitors for bringing down mischief upon the head of her grandson.

At last, as the boy was laid upon a mattress, she began to scold at Uncle Richard, but only to be brought up short by the doctor, who sternly bade her be silent, and not interrupt him while he examined Pete and set his arm.

This silenced the poor old woman, who stood back looking on, till the doctor had finished, and gone away to fetch medicine for his patient.

"Yes," he said, "very bad, and will be worse, for in all probability he will have a sharp attack of fever, and be delirious when he recovers his speech. It is really wonderful that he is still alive."

As these words were said, Tom looked back through the open cottage door, to see Pete lying motionless upon the mattress, and the dog sitting up beside him, looking down at the still white face.

"Looking at the dog, Tom?" said the Vicar.

"Yes, sir. What a faithful beast it is."

"Splendid," said the Vicar. "And yet I've seen Pete ill-use the poor brute, and I'm afraid it was half-starved; but it does not seem to influence the dog's affection for him."

"No, sir, not a bit. There are worse things than dogs, sir."

"Yes, Tom," said the Vicar, tightening his lips, "a great deal."

That night Pete's eyes opened, and he began talking rapidly about falling trees and sand, and the black darkness; but his grandmother, worn-out with watching, had fallen asleep, and there was no one to hearken but the dog, which reached over every now and then to lick his face or hands.

And at the touch the injured, delirious lad grew calmer, to drop off into his feverish sleep again, while, when Tom came early the next morning, it was to meet the doctor coming away.

"Don't go in," he said; "you can do no good; quiet and time are the only remedies for him.—Ah, good-morning, Mr Maxted."

For the Vicar was up early too, and had come to see after his worst parishioner.

"Good-morning, doctor. May I go in?"

"Yes, if you will be quiet."

The Vicar stole in, stayed for some time, and then came out as silently as he had gone in, to look inquiringly at the doctor.

"You think he will die?" he said.

"I hope not," replied the doctor earnestly. "Not if I can prevent it."

Just then there was another visitor to the cottage in the person of Uncle Richard, while soon after David appeared round the corner, where there was a sharp bend in the lane, having risen and started an hour earlier so as to come round by Mother Warboys', and inquire about the injured lad.

"Don't you go a-thinking that I keer a nutshell about Pete Warboys, Master Tom," said David, as he was looking into the cottage with the boy by his side, "because I don't, and it sims to me as the fewer Pete Warboyses there is in the world the better we should be. It warn't him I come about's mornin'—not Pete, you know, but the lad as had had an accident, and got nearly killed. See?"

"Yes, I see, David," said Tom, nodding his head.

"It's him as has got the friends—the young accident—not Pete. Say, Master Tom?"

"Yes."

"If Pete Warboys dies—"

"Hush! don't talk about it," cried Tom in horror.

"Oh, cert'ny not, sir, if you don't wish me to. May I talk about the dog?"

"Oh yes, of course," cried Tom, as he looked round at the bright, smiling earth, glittering with diamond-like dew, and thought how terrible it would be for one so young to be snatched away.

"Well, sir, I was thinking a deal about that dog last night, for I couldn't sleep, being a bit overcome like."

"Yes, I was awake a long time," said Tom, with a sigh.

"Not so long as I was, sir, I'll bet a bewry pear. Well, sir, I lay a-thinking that if—mind, I only says if, sir—if Pete Warboys was to die, how would it be, if master didn't say no, and I was to knock him up a barrel for a kennel to live in our yard?"

"I should ask uncle to let me keep him, David, for he's a wonderful dog."

"I don't go so far as that, sir, for he's a dog as has had a horful bad eddication, but something might be made of him; and it was a pity, seeing why he came yowling about our place, as you was so handy heaving stones at him."

"What?" cried Tom indignantly.

"Well, sir, p'r'aps it was me. But it weer a pity, warn't it?"

"Brutal," cried Tom.

"Ah, it weer. He's a horful hugly dog though."

"Not handsome certainly," replied Tom.

"That he arn't, sir, nowheres. But if he was fed reg'lar like, so as to alter his shape, and I took off part of his ears, and about half his tail, he might be made to look respectable."

"Rubbish!" cried Tom.

"Oh no, it arn't, sir. Dogs can be wonderfully improved. But what do you say to askin' cook to save the bits and bones while there's no one to feed him? I'll take 'em every day as I go home from work. What do you say?"

"Yes, of course," cried Tom; and from that day the ugly mongrel was regularly fed, but after the first feeding it did not trouble David to take the food, but left its master's side about three o'clock every afternoon, and came and fetched the food itself.

"Which it's only nat'ral," said David, with a grim smile; "for if ever I did see a dog as had ribs that looked as if they'd been grown into a basket to hold meat, that dog is Pete Warboys'; but I hope as good meat and bones 'll do something to make his hair grow decent, for he's a reg'lar worser as he is."



CHAPTER FIFTY TWO.

It was about a fortnight after the accident, that Tom was returning one day from Mother Warboys' cottage, where the old woman had sat scowling at him, while Pete lay back perfectly helpless, and smiled faintly at his visitor, when he met Mrs Fidler by the gate looking out for him.

"There's some one come from London to see you, Master Tom."

"From London?"

"Yes, sir; he said his name was Pringle."

"Pringle!" cried Tom eagerly. "Where is he?"

"In the dining-room with your uncle, sir; and I was to send you in as soon as you came back."

Tom hurried in, and found the clerk from Gray's Inn very smartly dressed. His hat was all glossy, and there was a flower in his button-hole.

"Ah, Pringle," cried the boy, "I'm so glad to see you. This is Pringle, who was so kind to me, uncle, when I was at the office."

"Yes," said Uncle Richard, rather grimly; "Mr Pringle has already introduced himself, and—ahem!—told me of the friendly feeling which existed between you."

The clerk, who had evidently been very uncomfortable, had brightened up a little at the sight of Tom, but his countenance fell again at Uncle Richard's words.

"Now, Mr Pringle, perhaps you will be good enough to repeat that which you have told me—in confidence, for I should like my nephew to hear it, so that he can give his opinion upon the matter."

"Certainly, sir," said Pringle, brightening up, and becoming the sharp-speaking clerk once more. "The fact is, Mr Thomas, I have left Mr Brandon's office—which I won't deceive you, sir, he didn't give me no chance to resign, but in consequence of a misunderstanding with Mr Samuel, because I wouldn't tell lies for him, he sent me off at once."

"I am very sorry, Pringle," said Tom sympathetically.

"So am I, sir," replied the clerk; "and same time, so I ain't. But to business, sir. So long as I was Mr Brandon's clerk, sir, my mouth seemed to be shut, sir; but now I ain't Mr Brandon's clerk, sir, it's open; and feeling, as I did, that there are things that you and your respected uncle ought to hear—"

"About my uncle and cousin?" cried Tom, flushing.

"Yes, sir. There was certain papers, sir, as—"

"Thank you, Pringle," cried Tom quickly; "neither my Uncle Richard nor I want to hear a single word about matters that are dead and buried."

"Thank you, Tom," cried Uncle Richard eagerly. "Mr Pringle will bear me out when I say, that you have used my exact words."

"Yes, sir," said Pringle, looking into his hat, as if to consult the maker's name. "I can corroborate that—the very words."

"So you see, Mr Pringle," continued Uncle Richard, rising to lay his hand upon his nephew's shoulder, "you have brought your information to a bad market, and if you expected to sell—"

"Which I'm sure I didn't, sir," cried the clerk, springing up, and indignantly banging his hat down upon the table, to its serious injury about the crown. "I never thought about a penny, sir, and I wouldn't take one. I came down here, sir, because I was free, sir, and to try and do a good turn to Mr Thomas here, sir, who was always a pleasant young gentleman to me, and I didn't like the idea of his being done out of his rights."

"Indeed!" said Uncle Richard, looking at the man searchingly.

"Yes, sir, indeed; I'd have spoken sooner if I could, but I always said to myself there was plenty of time for it before Mr Thomas would be of age. Good-morning, sir; good-morning, Mr Thomas. I'd like to shake hands with you once more. I'm glad to see you, sir, grown so, and looking so happy; but don't you go thinking that I came down on such a mean errand as that. I ain't perfect, I know, and in some cases I might have expected something, but I didn't here."

"I don't think you did, Pringle," cried Tom, holding out his hand, at which the clerk snatched.

"Neither do I, Mr Pringle, now," said Uncle Richard, "though I did at first. Thank you for your proffer, but once more, that unhappy business is as a thing forgotten to my nephew and me."

"Very good, sir; I'm very sorry I came," began Pringle.

"And I am not. I beg your pardon, Mr Pringle; and I am sure my nephew is very glad to see you."

"Oh, don't say no more about it, sir; I only thought—"

"Yes, you did not quite know us simple country people," said Uncle Richard. "There, Tom, see that your visitor has some lunch. Dinner at the usual time, and we'll have tea at half-past seven, so as to give you both a long afternoon. I dare say Mr Pringle will enjoy a fine day in the country."

"I should, sir, but I've to go back."

"Plenty of time for that," said Uncle Richard; "the station fly shall be here to take you over in time for the last train. There, you will excuse me."

That evening, as Tom rode over to the station with his visitor, and just before he said good-bye, Pringle rubbed away very hard at his damaged hat, but in vain, for the breakage still showed, and exclaimed—

"I don't care, sir, I won't believe it."

"Believe what, Pringle?"

"As them two's brothers, sir. It's against nature. Look here, I wouldn't have it at first, but he was quite angry, and said I must, and that I was to take it as a present from you."

"What is it?" said Tom; "a letter?"

"Yes, sir, to your uncle's lawyer, asking him as a favour to try and get me work."

"Then you'll get it, Pringle," cried Tom.

"That I shall, sir. And look here, cheque on his banker for five-and-twenty pounds, as he would make me have, to be useful till I get a fresh clerkship. Now, ought I to take it, Mr Thomas?"

"Of course," cried Tom. "There, in with you. Good-night, Pringle, good-night."

"But ought I to take that cheque, Mr Thomas? because I didn't earn it, and didn't want to," cried Pringle, leaning out of the carriage window; "Ought I to keep it, sir?"

"Yes," cried Tom, as the train moved off, and he ran along the platform, "to buy a new hat."



CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.

"And you did not know anything about it, Pete?" said Tom one day, as he sat beside the lad in Mother Warboys' cottage, while the old woman kept on going in and out, muttering to herself, and watching them uneasily.

Pete looked very thin and hollow-cheeked, but for the first time perhaps for many years his face was perfectly clean, and his hair had been clipped off very short; while now, after passing through a phase of illness which had very nearly had a fatal result, he was slowly gaining strength.

The dog, which had been lying half asleep beside his master, suddenly jumped up, to lay its long, thin nose on Tom's knee, and stood watching him, perfectly happy upon feeling a hand placed for treating as a sheath into which he could plunge the said nose.

"You give him too much to eat," said Pete. Then suddenly, "No, I can't recklect. It was blowin' when I got in to go and sleep, 'cause she was allus grumblin', and then somethin' ketched me, and my arm went crack, and it got very hot, and I went to sleep. I don't 'member no more. I say."

"Yes."

"I shan't take no more doctor's stuff, shall I?"

But he did—a great deal; and in addition soups and jellies, and sundry other preparations of Mrs Fidler's, till he was able to go about very slowly with his arm in a sling, to where he could seat himself in some sandy hollow, to bask in the sun along with his dog.

"But it's bringing up all the good in his nature, Tom," said the Vicar, rubbing his hands, "and we shall make a decent man of him yet."

"Humph! doubtful!" said Uncle Richard.

"You go and look for comets and satellites," cried the Vicar good-humouredly. "Tom's on my side, and we'll astonish you yet. Wait a bit."

Uncle Richard smiled, and David, when Pete formed the subject of conversation, used to chuckle.

"Not you, Master Tom," he said; "you'll never make anything of him, but go on and try if you like. I believe a deal more in the dog. He arn't such a bad one. But Pete—look here, sir. If you could cut him right down the thick part below his knees, which you couldn't do, 'cause he arn't got no thick part, for them shambling legs of his are like pipe-shanks—"

"What are you talking about, David?" said Tom merrily.

"Pete Warboys, Master Tom. I say, if you could cut him down like that, and then graft in a couple o' scions took of a young gent as I knows— never you mind who—bind 'em up neatly, clay 'em up, or do the same thing somewheres about his middle, you might grow a noo boy, as'd bear decent sort o' fruit. But you can't do that; and Pete Warboys 'll be Pete Warboys as long as he lives."

The old gardener had some ground for his bad opinion, for as the time rolled on, Pete grew strong and well, and then rapidly began to grow into a sturdy, strongly-built fellow, who always had a grin and a nod for Tom when they met; but it was not often, for he avoided every one, becoming principally a night bird, and only showed his gratitude to those who had nursed him through his dangerous illness, after saving his life, by religiously abstaining from making depredations upon their gardens.

"Which is something," David said with a chuckle. "But I allus told you so, Master Tom; I allus told you."

Tom, too, proved that the country air and his life with his uncle agreed with him, for he grew wonderfully.

"But you do sit up too much o' nights, Master Tom," said Mrs Fidler plaintively. "I wouldn't care if you'd invent a slope up in the top of the mill; but you won't."

"I often get a nap on the couch down below," said Tom, laughing. "Look here, Mrs Fidler, come up again some evening, and you shall see how grand it all is."

"No, my dear, no," said the housekeeper, shaking her head. "I don't understand it all. It scares me when you show me the moon galloping away through the skies, and the stars all spinning round in that dizzy way. It makes me giddy too; and last time I couldn't sleep for thinking about the world going at a thousand miles an hour, for it can't be safe. Then, too, I'm sure I should catch a cold in my head with that great shutter open. I was never meant for a star-gazer. Let me be as I am."

And time went on, with Tom plunging more and more deeply into the grand science, and rapidly becoming his uncle's right-hand man, helping him with the papers he sent up to the learned societies, till in the course of a couple of years people began to talk of the discoveries made with the big telescope at Heatherleigh.

Then came a morning about two years and a half after the terrible storm. Tom, who had not retired till three o'clock, for it had been a gloriously clear night, and he and his uncle had been busy for many hours over Saturn's satellites, which had been observed with unusual clearness, was sleeping soundly, when he was awakened by the sharp rattling of tiny pebbles against his window.

"Hulloo! what is it, David?" he cried, as he threw open his window.

"I told you so, sir; I told you so," cried the gardener. "I allus said how it would be."

"Some one been after the apples again?"

"Apples! no, sir; ten times worse than that. Pete's took."

"What?"

"Just heard it from our policeman, sir, who has been out all night. Pete Warboys has been for long enough mixed up with the Sanding gang, and was out with them last night over at Brackenbury Park, when the keepers come upon them, and there was a fight. One of the keepers was shot in the legs, and two of the poachers was a good deal knocked about. They were mastered, and four of 'em are in the lock-up."

"But you said Pete was taken."

"Yes, sir, he's one of 'em; and that arn't the worst of it."

"Then what is?"

"His dog flew at one of the keepers when they were holding Pete Warboys, and the man shot him dead."

"Poor wretch!" said Tom.

"Ay, I'm real sorry about that dog, sir. He was a hugly one surelie, but just think what a dog he'd ha' been if he'd been properly brought up."

The news was true enough; and fresh tidings came the very next day to Heatherleigh, Uncle Richard hearing that his brother had disposed of his practice, and gone to live down at Sandgate for his health.

Then, as the days glided by, the report came of examinations before the magistrates, which the Vicar attended.

"I went, Tom," he said, "because I was grieved about the young man, for I tried again and again to wean him from his life; but nothing could be done—everything was too black against him. He and the others have been committed for trial, and Pete is sure to be severely punished."

"Perhaps it will be for the best, Mr Maxted," said Tom. "It will be a very sharp lesson, and he may make a decent man after all."

"Nil desperandum," said the Vicar; "but I am afraid."

The trial came on, and Tom felt tempted to be present. It was not for the sake of seeing his old enemy in the dock, but out of interest in his fate, which on account of his youth resulted in the mildest sentence given to a prisoner that day; and as soon as he heard it pronounced by the judge, Pete rather startled the court by shouting loudly to Tom, whom he had sat and watched all through—

"Good-bye, Master Tom; God bless yer!"

The next minute he was gone, and somehow the young astronomer went away back home feeling rather sad, though he could not have explained why.

It was about a month later that a legal-looking letter arrived, directed to him, beautifully written in the roundest and crabbiest of engrossing hands.

It was from Pringle, telling how, thanks to Uncle Richard's letter of recommendation, he was never so happy in his life, for he was in the best of offices, and had the best of masters, who was a real gentleman, with a wonderful knowledge of the law.

"You'd have taken to it, Mr Thomas, I'm sure, if you'd been under him; but one never knows, and it wasn't to tell you this that I've taken the liberty of writing to you. I suppose you know that your uncle sold his practice, but perhaps you don't know why. I heard all about it from the new man they had. I met him over a case my gov'nor was conducting. It was all along of Mr Samuel, who used to go on awfully. He got at last into a lot of trouble and went off. You'll never believe it; but it's a fact. He's 'listed in the Royal Artillery."

"And the best place for him," said Uncle Richard, frowning, when he read the letter in turn; "they will bring him to his senses. By the way, Tom, Professor Denniston is coming down to see our glass; he wants to make one himself double the size, and says he would like our advice."

"Our advice, uncle?" said Tom, laughing.

"Yes," said Uncle Richard seriously; "your advice, gained by long experience, will be as valuable as mine."

One more reminiscence of Tom Blount's country life, and we will leave him to his star-gazing, well on the high-road to making himself one of those quiet, retiring, scientific men of whom our country has such good cause to be proud.

Heatherleigh and its neighbourhood had been very peaceful for four years, and the word poacher had hardly been heard, when one day, as Tom was in the laboratory, he heard a sharp tapping being given at the yard gate with a stick, and going to the window he started, for there was a tall, dark, smart-looking artillery sergeant, standing looking up, ready to salute him as his face appeared.

"Cousin Sam!" mentally exclaimed Tom, and his face flushed.

"Beg pardon, sir; can I have a word with you?" came in a loud, decisive, military way.

"Why, it's Pete Warboys!" cried Tom. "Yes, all right; I'll come down," and he went below to where the sergeant stood, drawn up stiff, well set-up, and good-looking, waiting for the summons to enter.

"Yes, sir, it's me," said the stranger, smiling frankly.

"I shouldn't have known you, Pete."

"S'pose not, sir. They rubbed me down, and set me up, and the clothes make such a difference. Besides, it's over four years since you saw me."

"Yes—how time goes; but I did not know you had enlisted."

"No, sir; I never said anything. You see, I came out of prison, and I didn't want to come back here, for if I had, I couldn't ha' kept away from the rabbits and birds, and I should have been in trouble again. You made me want to do better, sir, but I never seemed as if I could; and just then up comes a recruiting sergeant, just as I was hesitating, and I looked at him, and heard what he had to say, how the service would make a man of me."

"And you took the shilling, Pete?"

"Yes, sir; and the best day's work I ever did," said Pete, speaking sharply, decisively, and with a manly carriage about him that made Tom stare. "I was was bombardier in two years, and a month ago I got my sergeant's stripes."

He gave a proud glance at the chevrons on his arm as he spoke.

"I'm very glad, Pete."

"Thankye, sir. I knew you would be. You did it, sir."

"I?"

"Yes, sir. Mr Maxted used to talk to me, but it was seeing what you were set me thinking so much; but there was no way, and I got into trouble. I'm off to Malta, sir, in a month. On furlough now, and down here to see the old woman."

"Ah! She's very feeble now, Pete."

"Very, sir. She's awfully old; but she knew me directly, and began to blow me up."

"What for?"

"Throwing myself away, sir," cried Pete, with a merry laugh. "Poor old soul, though, she knows no better. Good-bye, sir. I shall see you again. I read your name in the paper the other day about finding a comet, and it made me laugh to think of the old days. Good-day, sir. I'm going to see Mr Maxted. I find he has been very good to the poor old granny since I've been away."

"And some people say that the army's a bad school," said Mr Maxted that night at dinner, when Uncle Richard and Tom were spending the evening at the Vicarage. "If they would only do for all rough young men what they have done for Pete Warboys, it would be a grand thing. But I always did have hopes of him, eh, Tom?"

"Ah," said Uncle Richard, "it's a long lane that has no turning."

"I say, Master Tom," cried David, who never could see that his young master had grown a man, "did you see Pete Warboys? There: if anybody had took a hoath and swore it, I wouldn't ha' believed there could ha' been such a change. Here, look at him. Six foot high, and as straight as a harrer. 'Member giving him the stick over the wall?"

"Ah, Mr David!" cried Pete, marching up. "How are the apples?—Beg pardon, Mr Blount, I forgot to say something to you last night."

"Yes; what is it?" said Tom, walking aside with the sergeant.

"There's curious things happen sometimes, sir; more curious than people think for."

"Yes, often in science, Pete," said Tom.

"Dessay, sir; but I mean in every-day life. Your cousin, sir."

"Yes. What about him?" cried Tom eagerly.

"Him that was down here, sir, and I fetched the ladder for to get in yonder."

"Then it was you, Pete?"

"Oh yes, sir; I helped him. I was a nice boy then. You'll hardly believe it, but he's in my company—a soldier. Private R.A."

"My cousin?"

"Yes, sir."

"And is he getting on well?" said Tom.

"Hum! ha!" said the sergeant stiffly. "He gets into trouble too often. I don't think he'll earn his stripes just yet. Good-morning, sir, and good-bye. But—"

"Yes, Pete."

"Would you mind shaking hands, sir—once?" Tom's hand darted out.

The next minute Pete was swinging along at the steady, firm rate of the British soldier on the march, and Tom Blount went back into the mill, to continue a calculation connected with the stars.

The End.