All at once Gilmore shouted wildly,—

"Vane—we can't do it. Let's swim ashore."

Vane turned his eyes slowly toward him, as if he hardly comprehended his words.

"What can I do?" panted Gilmore, who, on his side, was gradually growing more rapid and laboured in the strokes he made; but Vane made no sign, and the three floated down stream, each minute more helpless; and it was now rapidly becoming a certainty that, if Gilmore wished to save his life, he must quit his hold of Distin, and strive his best to reach the bank.

"It seems so cowardly," he groaned; and he looked wildly round for help, but there was none. Then there seemed to be just one chance: the shore looked to be just in front of them, for the river turned here sharply round, forming a loop, and there was a possibility of their being swept right on to the bank.

Vain hope! The stream swept round to their right, bearing them toward the other shore, against which it impinged, and then shot off with increased speed away for the other side; and, though they were carried almost within grasping distance of a tree whose boughs hung down to kiss the swift waters, the nearest was just beyond Gilmore's reach, as he raised his hand, which fell back with a splash, as they were borne right out, now toward the middle once more, and round the bend.

"I can't help it. Must let go," thought Gilmore. "I'm done." Then aloud:

"Vane, old chap! let go. Let's swim ashore;" and then he shuddered, for Vane's eyes had a dull, half-glazed stare, and his lips, nostrils,—the greater part of his face, sank below the stream. "Oh, help!" groaned Gilmore; "he has gone:" and, loosing his hold of Distin, he made a snatch at Vane, who was slowly sinking, the current turning him face downward, and rolling him slowly over.

But Gilmore made a desperate snatch, and caught him by the sleeve as Vane rose again with his head thrown back and one arm rising above the water, clutching frantically at vacancy.

The weight of that arm was sufficient to send him beneath the surface again, and Gilmore's desperate struggle to keep him afloat resulted in his going under in turn, losing his presence of mind, and beginning to struggle wildly as he, too, strove to catch at something to keep himself up.

Another few moments and all would have been over, but the clutch did not prove to be at vacancy. Far from it. A hand was thrust into his, and as he was drawn up, a familiar voice shouted in his singing ears, where the water had been thundering the moment before:

"Catch hold of the side," was shouted; and his fingers involuntarily closed on the gunwale of the boat, while Macey reached out and seized Vane by the collar, drew him to the boat, or the boat to him, and guided the drowning lad's cramped hand to the gunwale too.

"Now!" he shouted; "can you hold on?"

There was no answer from either, and Macey hesitated for a few moments, but, seeing how desperate a grip both now had, he seized one of the recovered sculls, thrust it out over the rowlock, and pulled and paddled first at the side, then over the stern till, by help of the current, he guided the boat with its clinging freight into shallow water where he leaped overboard, seized Gilmore, and dragged him right up the sandy shallow to where his head lay clear. He then went back and seized Vane in turn, after literally unhooking his cramped fingers from the side, and dragged him through the shallow water a few yards, before he realised that his fellow-pupil's other hand was fixed, with what for the moment looked to be a death-grip, in Distin's clothes.

This task was more difficult, but by the time he had dragged Vane alongside of Gilmore, the latter was slowly struggling up to his feet; and in a confused, staggering way he lent a hand to get Vane's head well clear of the water on to the warm dry pebbles, and then between them they dragged Distin right out beyond the pebbles on to the grass.

"One moment," cried Macey, and he dashed into the water again just in time to catch hold of the boat, which was slowly floating away. Then wading back he got hold of the chain, and twisted it round a little blackthorn bush on the bank.

"I'm better now," gasped Gilmore. And then, "Oh, Aleck, Aleck, they're both dead!"

"They aren't," shouted Macey fiercely. "Look! Old Weathercock's moving his eyes, but I'm afraid of poor old Colonist. Here, hi, Vane, old man! You ain't dead, are you? Catch hold, Gil, like this, under his arm. Now, together off!"

They seized Vane, and, raising his head and shoulders, dragged him up on to the grass, near where Distin lay, apparently past all help, and a groan escaped from Gilmore's lips, as, rapidly regaining his strength and energy, he dropped on his knees beside him.

"It's all right," shouted Macey, excitedly, when a whisper would have done. "Weathercock's beginning to revive again. Hooray, old Vane! You'll do. We must go to Distie."

Vane could not speak, but he made a sign, which they interpreted to mean, go; and the next moment they were on their knees by Distin's side, trying what seemed to be the hopeless task of reviving him. For the lad's face looked ghastly in the extreme; and, though Macey felt his breast and throat, there was not the faintest pulsation perceptible.

But they lost no time; and Gilmore, who was minute by minute growing stronger, joined in his companion's efforts at resuscitation from a few rather hazy recollections of a paper he had once read respecting the efforts to be made with the apparently drowned.

Everything was against them. They had no hot flannels or water-bottles to apply to the subject's feet, no blankets in which to wrap him, nothing but sunshine, as Macey began. After doubling up a couple of wet jackets into a cushion and putting them under Distin's back, he placed himself kneeling behind the poor fellow's head, seized his arms, pressed them hard against his sides, and then drew them out to their full stretch, so as to try and produce respiration by alternately compressing and expanding the chest.

He kept on till he grew so tired that his motions grew slow; and then he gave place to Gilmore, who carried on the process eagerly, while Macey went to see how Vane progressed, finding him able to speak now in a whisper.

"How is Distin?" he whispered.

"Bad," said Macey, laconically.

"Not dead!" cried Vane, frantically.

"Not yet," was the reply; "but I wouldn't give much for the poor fellow's chance. Oh, Vane, old chap, do come round, and help. You are so clever, and know such lots of things. I shall never be happy again if he dies."

For answer to this appeal Vane sat up, but turned so giddy that he lay back again.

"I'll come and try as soon as I can," he said, feebly. "All the strength has gone out of me."

"Let me help you," cried Macey; and he drew Vane into a sitting position, but had to leave him and relieve Gilmore, whose arms were failing fast.

Macey took his place, and began with renewed vigour at what seemed to be a perfectly hopeless task, while Gilmore went to Vane.

"It's no good," muttered Macey, whose heart was full of remorse; and a terrible feeling of despair came over him. "It's of no use, but I will try and try till I drop. Oh, if I could only bring him to, I'd never say an unkind word to him again!"

He threw himself into his task, working Distin's thin arms up and down with all his might, listening intently the while for some faint suggestion of breathing, but all in vain; the arms he held were cold and dank, and the face upon which he looked down, seeing it in reverse, was horribly ghastly and grotesque.

"I don't like him," continued Macey, to himself, as he toiled away; "I never did like him, and I never shall, but I think I'd sooner it was me lying here than him. And me the cause of it all."

"Poor old Distie!" he went on. "I suppose he couldn't help his temper. It was his nature, and he came from a foreign country. How could I be such a fool? Nearly drowned us all."

He bent over Distin at every pressure of the arms, close to the poor fellow's side; and, as he hung over him, the great tears gathered in his eyes, and, in a choking voice, he muttered aloud:—

"I didn't mean it, old chap. It was only to give you a ducking for being so disagreeable; indeed, indeed, I wish it had been me."

"Oh, I say," cried a voice at his ear; "don't take on like that, old fellow. We'll bring him round yet. Vane's getting all right fast."

"I can't help it, Gil, old chap," said Macey, in a husky whisper; "it is so horrible to see him like this."

"But I tell you we shall bring him round. You're tired, and out of heart. Let me take another turn."

"No, I'm not tired yet," said Macey, recovering himself, and speaking more steadily. "I'll keep on. You feel his heart again."

He accommodated his movements to his companion's, and Gilmore kept his hand on Distin's breast, but he withdrew it again without a word; and, as Macey saw the despair and the hopeless look on the lad's face, his own heart sank lower, and his arms felt as if all the power had gone.

But, with a jerk, he recommenced working Distin's arms up and down with the regular pumping motion, till he could do no more, and he again made way for Gilmore.

He was turning to Vane, but felt a touch on his shoulder, and, looking round, it was to gaze in the lad's grave face.

"How is he?"

"Oh, bad as bad can be. Do, pray, try and save him, Vane. We mustn't let him die."

Vane breathed hard, and went to Distin's side, kneeling down to feel his throat, and looking more serious as he rose.

"Let me try now," he whispered, but Gilmore shook his head.

"You're too weak," he said. "Wait a bit."

Vane waited, and at last they were glad to let him take his turn, when the toil drove off the terrible chill from which he was suffering, and he worked at the artificial respiration plan, growing stronger every minute.

Again he resumed the task in his turn, and then again, after quite an hour of incessant effort had been persisted in; while now the feeling was becoming stronger in all their breasts that they had tried in vain, for there was no more chance.

"If we could have had him in a bed, we might have done some good," said Gilmore, sadly. "Vane, old fellow, I'm afraid you must give it up."

But, instead of ceasing his efforts, the lad tried the harder, and, in a tone of intense excitement, he panted:—

"Look!"

"At what?" cried Macey, eagerly; and then, going down on his knees, he thrust in his hand beneath the lad's shirt.

"Yes! you can feel it. Keep on, Vane, keep on."

"What!" shouted Gilmore; and then he gave a joyful cry, for there was a trembling about one of Distin's eyelids, and a quarter of an hour later they saw him open his eyes, and begin to stare wonderingly round.

It was only for a few moments, and then they closed again, as if the spark of the fire of life that had been trembling had died out because there had been a slight cessation of the efforts to produce it.

But there was no farther relaxation. All, in turn, worked hard, full of excitement at the fruit borne by their efforts; and, at last, while Vane was striving his best, the patient's eyes were opened, gazed round once more, blankly and wonderingly, till they rested upon Vane's face, when memory reasserted itself, and an unpleasant frown darkened the Creole's countenance.

"Don't," he cried, angrily, in a curiously weak, harsh voice, quite different from his usual tones; and he dragged himself away, and tried to rise, but sank back.

Vane quitted his place, and made way for Macey, whose turn it would have been to continue their efforts, but Distin gave himself a jerk, and fixed his eyes on Gilmore, who raised him by passing one hand beneath his shoulders.

"Better?"

"Better? What do you mean? I haven't—Ah! How was it the boat upset?"

There was no reply, and Distin spoke again, in a singularly irritable way.

"I said, how was it the boat upset? Did someone run into us?"

"You rowed right upon one of the old posts," replied Gilmore, and Distin gazed at him fixedly, while Macey shrank back a little, and then looked furtively from Vane to Gilmore, and back again at Distin, who fixed his eyes upon him searchingly, but did not speak for some time.

"Here," he said at last; "give me your hand. I can't sit here in these wet things."

"Can you stand?" said Gilmore, eagerly.

"Of course I can stand. Why shouldn't I? Because I'm wet? Oh!"

He clapped his hands to his head, and bowed down a little.

"Are you in pain?" asked Gilmore, with solicitude.

"Of course I am," snarled Distin; "any fool could see that. I must have struck my head, I suppose."

"He doesn't suspect me," thought Macey, with a long-drawn breath full of relief.

"Here, I'll try again," continued Distin. "Where's the boat? I want to get back, and change these wet things. Oh! my head aches as if it would split!"

Gilmore offered his hand again, and, forgetting everything in his desire to help one in pain and distress, Vane ranged up on the other side, and was about to take Distin's arm.

But the lad shrank from him fiercely.

"I can manage," he said. "I don't want to be hauled and pulled about like a child. Now, Gil, steady. Let's get into the boat. I want to lie down in the stern."

"Wait a minute or two; she's half full of water," cried Macey, who was longing to do something helpful. "Come on, Vane."

The latter went to his help, and they drew the boat closer in.

"Oh, I say," whispered the lad, "isn't old Dis in a temper?"

"Yes; I've heard that people who have been nearly drowned are terribly irritable when they come to," replied Vane, in the same tone. "Never mind, we've saved his life."

"You did," said Macey.

"Nonsense; we all did."

"No; we two didn't dive down in the black pool, and fetch him up. Oh, I say, Vane, what a day! If this is coming out for pleasure I'll stop at home next time. Now then, together."

They pulled together, and by degrees lightened the boat of more and more water, till they were able to get it quite ashore, and drain out the last drops over the side. Then launching again, and replacing the oars, Macey gave his head a rub.

"We shall have to buy the miller a new boat-hook," he said. "I suppose the iron on the end of the pole was so heavy that it took the thing down. I never saw it again. Pretty hunt I had for the sculls. I got one, but was ever so long before I could find the other."

"You only just got to us in time," said Vane, with a sigh; and he looked painfully in his companion's eyes.

"Oh, I say, don't look at a fellow like that," said Macey. "I am sorry—I am, indeed."

Vane was silent, but still looked at his fellow-pupil steadily.

"Don't ever split upon me, old chap," continued Macey; "and I'll own it all to you. I thought it would only be a bit of a lark to give him a ducking, for he had been—and no mistake—too disagreeable for us to put up with it any longer."

"Then you did keep on telling him which hand to pull and steered him on to the pile?"

Macey was silent.

"If you did, own to it like a man, Aleck."

"Yes, I will—to you, Vane. I did, for I thought it would be such a game to see him overboard, and I felt it would only be a wetting for us. I never thought of it turning out as it did."

He ceased speaking, and Vane stood gazing straight before him for a few moments.

"No," he said, at last, "you couldn't have thought that it would turn out like it did."

"No, 'pon my word, I didn't."

"And we might have had to go back and tell Syme that one of his pupils was dead. Oh, Aleck, if it had been so!"

"Yes, but don't you turn upon me, Vane. I didn't mean it. You know I didn't mean it; and I'll never try such a trick as that again."

"Ready there?" cried Gilmore.

"Yes; all right," shouted Macey. Then, in a whisper, "Don't tell Distie. He'd never forgive me. Here they come."

For, sallow, and with his teeth chattering, Distin came toward them, leaning on Gilmore's arm; but, as he reached the boat, he drew himself up, and looked fixedly in Vane's face.

"You needn't try to plot any more," he said, "for I shall be aware of you next time."

"Plot?" stammered Vane, who was completely taken aback. "I don't know what you mean."

"Of course not," said Distin, bitterly. "You are such a genius—so clever. You wouldn't set that idiot Macey to tell me which hand to pull, so as to overset the boat. But I'll be even with you yet."

"I wouldn't, I swear," cried Vane, sharply.

"Oh, no; not likely. You are too straightforward and generous. But I'm not blind: I can see; and if punishment can follow for your cowardly trick, you shall have it. Come, Gil, you and I will row back together. It will warm us, and we can be on our guard against treachery this time."

He stepped into the boat, staggered, and would have fallen overboard, had not Vane caught his arm; but, as soon as he had recovered his balance, he shook himself free resentfully and seated himself on the forward thwart.

"Jump in," said Gilmore, in a low voice.

"Yes, jump in, Mr Vane Lee, and be good enough to go right to the stern. You did not succeed in drowning me this time; and, mind this, if you try any tricks on our way back, I'll give you the oar across the head. You cowardly, treacherous bit of scum!"

"No, he isn't," said Macey, boldly, "and you're all out of it, clever as you are. It was not Vane's doing, the running on the pile, but mine. I did it to take some of the conceit and bullying out of you, so you may say and do what you like."

"Oh, yes, I knew you did it," sneered Distin; "but there are not brains enough in your head to originate such a dastardly trick. That was Vane Lee's doing, and he'll hear of it another time, as sure as my name's Distin."

"I tell you it was my own doing entirely," cried Macey, flushing up; "and I'll tell you something else. I'm glad I did it—so there. For you deserved it, and you deserve another for being such a cad."

"What do you mean?" cried Distin, threateningly. "What I say, you ungrateful, un-English humbug. You were drowning; you couldn't be found, and you wouldn't have been here now, if it hadn't been for old Weathercock diving down and fetching you up, and then, half-dead himself, working so hard to help save your life."

"I don't believe it," snarled Distin.

"Don't," said Macey, as he thrust the boat from the side, throwing himself forward at the same time, so that he rode out on his chest, and then wriggled in, to seat himself close by Vane, while Gilmore and Distin began to row hard, so as to get some warmth into their chilled bodies.

They went on in silence for some time, and then Macey leaped up.

"Now, Vane," he cried; "it's our turn."

"Sit down," roared Distin.

"Don't, Aleck," said Vane, firmly. "You are quite right. We want to warm ourselves too. Come, Gil, and take my place."

"Sit down!" roared Distin again; but Gilmore exchanged places with Vane, and Macey stepped forward, and took hold of Distin's oar.

"Now then, give it up," he said; and, utterly cowed by the firmness of the two lads, Distin stepped over the thwart by Vane, and went and seated himself by Gilmore.

"Ready?" cried Macey.

"Yes."

"You pull as hard as you can, and let's send these shivers out of us. You call out, Gil, and steer us, for we don't want to have to look round."

They bent their backs to their work, and sent the boat flying through the water, Gilmore shouting a hint from time to time, with the result that they came in sight of the mill much sooner than they had expected, and Gilmore looked out anxiously, hoping to get the boat moored unseen, so that they could hurry off and get to the rectory by the fields, so that their drenched condition should not be noticed.

But, just as they approached the big willows, a window in the mill was thrown open, the loud clacking and the roar of the machinery reached their ears, and there was the great, full face of the miller grinning down at them.

"Why, hallo!" he shouted; "what game's this? Been fishing?"

"No," said Vane, quietly; "we—"

But, before he could finish, the miller roared:—

"Oh, I see, you've been bathing; and, as you had no towels, you kept your clothes on. I say, hang it all, my lads, didst ta capsize the boat?"

"No," said Vane, quietly, as he leaped ashore with the chain; "we had a misfortune, and ran on one of those big stumps up the river."

"Hey? What, up yonder by old brigg?"

"Yes."

"Hang it all, lads, come into the cottage, and I'll send on to fetch your dry clothes. Hey, but it's a bad job. Mustn't let you catch cold. Here, hi! Mrs Lasby. Kettle hot?"

"Yes, Mester," came from the cottage.

"Then set to, and make the young gents a whole jorum of good hot tea."

The miller hurried the little party into the cottage, where the kitchen-fire was heaped up with brushwood and logs, about which the boys stood, and steamed, drinking plenteously of hot tea the while, till the messenger returned with their dry clothes, and, after the change had been made, their host counselled a sharp run home, to keep up the circulation, undertaking to send the wet things back himself.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

MR. BRUFF'S PRESENT.

That boating trip formed a topic of conversation in the study morning after morning when the rector was not present—a peculiar form of conversation when Distin was there—which was not regularly, for the accident on the river served as an excuse for several long stays in bed—but a free and unfettered form when he was not present. For Macey soon freed Vane from any feeling of an irksome nature by insisting to Gilmore how he had been to blame.

Gilmore looked very serious at first, but laughed directly after.

"I really thought it was an accident," he said; "and I felt the more convinced that it was on hearing poor old hot-headed Distie accuse you, Vane, because, of course, I knew you would not do such a thing; and I thought Macey blamed himself to save you."

"Thought me a better sort of fellow than I am, then," said Macey.

"Much," replied Gilmore, quietly. "You couldn't see old Weathercock trying to drown all his friends."

"I didn't," cried Macey, indignantly. "I only wanted to give Distie a cooling down."

"And nicely you did it," cried Gilmore.

"There, don't talk any more about it," cried Vane, who was busy sketching upon some exercise paper. "It's all over, and doesn't bear thinking about."

"What's he doing?" cried Macey, reaching across the table, and making a snatch at the paper, which Vane tried hurriedly to withdraw, but only saved a corner, while Macey waved his portion in triumph.

"Hoo-rah!" he cried. "It's a plan for a new patent steamboat, and I shall make one, and gain a fortune, while poor old Vane will be left out in the cold."

"Let's look," said Gilmore.

"No, no. It's too bad," cried Vane, making a fresh dash at the paper.

"Shan't have it, sir! Sit down," cried Macey. "How dare you, sir! Look, Gil! It is a boat to go by steam, with a whipper-whopper out at the stern to send her along."

"I wish you wouldn't be so stupid, Aleck. Give me the paper."

"Shan't."

"I don't want to get up and make a struggle for it."

"I should think not, sir. Sit still. Oh, I say, Gil, look. Here it all is. It's not steam. It's a fellow with long arms and queer elbows turns a wheel."

"Get out!" cried Vane, laughing; "those are shafts and cranks."

"Of course they are. No one would think it, though, would they, Gil? I say, isn't he a genius at drawing?"

"Look here, Aleck, if you don't be quiet with your chaff I'll ink your nose."

"Wonderful, isn't he?" continued Macey. "I say, how many hundred miles an hour a boat like that will go!"

"Oh, I say, do drop it," cried Vane, good-humouredly.

"I know," cried Macey; "this is what you were thinking about that day we had Rounds' boat."

"Well, yes," said Vane, quietly. "I couldn't help thinking how slow and laborious rowing seemed to be, and how little change has been made in all these years that are passed. You see," he continued, warming to his subject, "there is so much waste of manual labour. It took two of us to move that boat and not very fast either."

"And only one sitting quite still to upset it," said Gilmore quietly.

Macey started, as if he had been stung.

"There's a coward," he cried. "I thought you weren't going to say any more about it."

"Slipped out all at once, Aleck," said Gilmore.

"But you were quite right," said Vane. "Two fellows toiling hard, and just one idea from another's brain proved far stronger."

"Now you begin," groaned Macey. "Oh, I say, don't! I wouldn't have old Distie know for anything. You chaps are mean."

"Go on, Vane," cried Gilmore.

"There's nothing more to go on about, for I haven't worked out the idea thoroughly."

"I know," cried Macey, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"I thought," continued Vane dreamily, "that one might contrive a little paddle or screw—"

"And work it with hot-water pipes," cried Macey.

It was Vane's turn to wince now; and he made a pretence of throwing a book at Macey, who ducked down below the table, and then slowly raised his eyes to the level as Vane went on.

"Then you could work that paddle by means of cranks."

"Only want one—old Weathercock. Best crank I know," cried Macey.

"Will you be quiet," cried Gilmore. "Go on, Vane."

"That is nearly all," said the latter, thoughtfully, and looking straight before him, as if he could see the motive-power he mentally designed.

"But how are you going to get the thing to work?"

"Kitchen-boiler," cried Macey.

Gilmore made "an offer" at him with his fist, but Macey dodged again.

"Oh, one might move it by working a lever with one's hands."

"Then you might just as well row," said Gilmore.

"Well, then, by treadles, with one's feet."

"Oh—oh—oh!" roared Macey. "Don't! don't! Who's going to be put on the tread-mill when he wants to have a ride in a boat? Why, I—"

"Pst! Syme!" whispered Gilmore, as a step was heard. Then the door opened, and Distin came in, looking languid and indifferent.

"Morning," cried Gilmore. "Better?"

Distin gave him a short nod, paid no heed to the others, and went to his place to take up a book, yawning loudly as he did so. Then he opened the book slowly.

"Look!" cried Macey, with a mock aspect of serious interest.

"Eh? What at?" said Vane.

"The book," cried Macey; and then he yawned tremendously. "Oh, dear! I've got it now."

Vane stared.

"Don't you see? You, being a scientific chap, ought to have noticed it directly. Example of the contagious nature of a yawn."

Oddly enough, Gilmore yawned slightly just at the moment, and, putting his hand to his mouth, said to himself, "Oh, dear me!"

"There!" cried Macey, triumphantly, "that theory's safe. Distie comes in, sits down, yawns; then the book yawns, I yawn, Gilmore yawns. You might, could, would, or should yawn, only you don't, and—"

"Good-morning, gentlemen. I'm a bit late, I fear. Had a little walk after breakfast, and ran against Doctor Lee, who took me in to see his greenhouse. He tells me you are going to heat it by hot-water. Why, Vane, you are quite a genius."

Macey reached out a leg to kick Vane under the table, but it was Distin's shin which received the toe of the lad's boot, just as Gilmore moved suddenly.

Distin uttered a sharp ejaculation, and looked fiercely across at Gilmore.

"What did you do that for?" he cried.

"What?"

"Kick me under the table."

"I did not."

"Yes, you—"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," cried the rector reprovingly, "this is not a small boarding-school, and you are not school-boys. I was speaking."

"I beg your pardon, sir," cried Gilmore.

Distin was silent, and Macey, who was scarlet in the face; glanced across at Vane, and seemed as if he were going to choke with suppressed laughter, while Vane fidgeted about in his seat.

The rector frowned, coughed, changed his position, smiled, and went on, going back a little to pick up his words where he had left off.

"Quite a genius, Vane—yes, I repeat it, quite a genius."

"Oh, no, sir; it will be easy enough."

"After once doing, Vane," said the rector, "but the first invention—the contriving—is, I beg to say, hard. However, I am intensely gratified to see that you are putting your little—little—little—what shall I call them?"

"Dodges, sir," suggested Macey, deferentially.

"No, Mr Macey, that is too commonplace—too low a term for the purpose, and we will, if you please, say schemes."

"Yes, sir," said Macey, seriously—"schemes."

"Schemes to so useful a purpose," continued the rector; "and I shall ask you to superintend the fitting up of my conservatory upon similar principles."

"Really, sir, I—" began Vane; but the rector smiled and raised a protesting hand.

"Don't refuse me, Vane," he said. "Of course I shall beg that you do not attempt any of the manual labour—merely superintend; but I shall exact one thing, if you consent to do it for me. That is, if the one at the manor succeeds."

"Of course I will do it, if you wish, sir," said Vane.

"I felt sure you would. I said so to your uncle, and your aunt said she was certain you would," continued the rector; "but, as I was saying, I shall exact one thing: as my cook is a very particular woman, and would look startled if I even proposed to go into the kitchen—"

He paused, and Vane, who was in misery, glanced at Macey—to see that he was thoroughly enjoying it all, while Distin's countenance expressed the most sovereign contempt.

"I say, Vane Lee," said the rector again, as if he expected an answer, "I shall exact one thing."

"Yes, sir. What?"

"That the rule of the queen of the kitchen be respected; but—ah, let me see, Mr Distin, I think we were to take up the introductory remarks made on the differential calculus."

And the morning's study at the rectory went on.

"Best bit of fun I've had for a long time," cried Macey, as he strolled out with Vane when the readings were at an end.

"Yes, at my expense," cried Vane sharply. "My leg hurts still with that kick."

"Oh, that's nothing," cried Macey; "I kicked old Distie twice as hard by mistake, and he's wild with Gilmore because he thinks it's he."

Vane gripped him by the collar.

"No, no, don't. I apologise," cried Macey. "Don't be a coward."

"You deserve a good kicking," cried Vane, loosing his grasp.

"Yes, I know I do, but be magnanimous in your might, oh man of genius."

"Look here," cried Vane, grinding his teeth, "if you call me a genius again, I will kick you, and hard too."

"But I must. My mawmaw said I was always to speak the truth, sir."

"Yes, and I'll make you speak the truth, too. Such nonsense! Genius! Just because one can use a few tools, and scheme a little. It's absurd."

"All right. I will not call you a genius any more. But I say, old chap, shall you try and make a boat go by machinery?"

"I should like to," said Vane, who became dreamy and thoughtful directly. "But I have no boat."

"Old Rounds would lend you his. There was a jolly miller lived down by the Greythorpe river," sang Macey.

"Nonsense! He wouldn't lend me his boat to cut about."

"Sell it you."

Vane shook his head. "Cost too much."

"Then, why cut it? You ought to be able to make a machine that would fit into a boat with screws, or be stuck like a box under the thwarts."

"Yes, so I might. I didn't think of that," cried Vane, eagerly. "I'll try it."

"There," said Macey, "that comes of having a clever chap at your elbow like yours most obediently. Halves!"

"Eh?"

"I say, halves! I invented part of the machine, and I want to share. But when are you going to begin old Syme's conservatory?"

"Oh, dear!" sighed Vane. "I'd forgotten that. Come along. Let's try and think out the paddles as you propose. I fancy one might get something like a fish's tail to propel a boat."

"What, by just waggling?"

"It seems to me to be possible."

"Come on, and let's do it then," cried Macey, starting to trot along the road. "I want to get the taste of Distin out of my mouth.—I say—"

"Well?"

"Don't I wish his mother wanted him so badly that he was obliged to go back to the West Indies at once.—Hallo! Going to the wood?"

"Yes, I don't mean to be beaten over those fungi we had the other day," cried Vane; and to prove that he did not, he inveigled Macey into accompanying him into the woods that afternoon, to collect another basketful—his companion assisting by nutting overhead, while Vane busied himself among the moss at the roots of the hazel stubs.

"Going to have those for supper?" said Macey, as they were returning.

Vane shook his head. "I suppose I mustn't take these home to-day after all."

"Look here, come on with me to the rectory, and give 'em to Mr Syme."

"Pooh!—Why, he laughed at them."

"But you can tell him you had some for dinner at the Little Manor. I won't say anything."

"I've a good mind to, for I've read that they are delicious if properly cooked," cried Vane. "No, I don't like to. But I should like to give them to someone, for I don't care to see them wasted."

"Do bring them to the rectory, and I'll coax Distie on into eating some. He will not know they are yours; and, if they upset him, he will not be of so much consequence as any one else."

But Vane shook his head as they walked thoughtfully back.

"I know," he cried, all at once; "I'll give them to Mrs Bruff."

"But would she cook them?"

"Let's go and see. What time is it?"

"Half-past four," said Macey.

"Plenty of time before he gets home from work."

Vane started off at such a rate that Macey had to cry out for respite as they struck out of the wood, and reached a lane where, to their surprise, they came plump upon the gipsies camped by the roadside, with a good fire burning, and their miserable horse cropping the grass in peace.

The first objects their eyes lit upon were the women who were busily cooking; and Vane advanced and offered his basket of vegetable treasures, but they all laughed and shook their heads, and the oldest woman of the party grunted out the word "poison."

"There," said Macey, as they went along the lane, "you hear. They ought to know whether those are good or no. If they were nice, do you think the gipsies would let them rot in the woods."

"But, you see, they don't know," said Vane quietly, and then he gripped his companion's arm. "What's that?" he whispered.

"Some one talking in the wood."

"Poaching perhaps," said Vane, as he peered in amongst the trees.

Just then the voice ceased, and there was a rustling in amongst the bushes at the edge of the wood, as if somebody was forcing his way through, and resulting in one of the gipsy lads they had before seen, leaping out into the narrow deep lane, followed by the other.

The lads seemed to be so astonished at the encounter that they stood staring at Vane and Macey for a few moments, then looked at each other, and then, as if moved by the same impulse, they turned and rushed back into the wood, and were hidden from sight directly.

"What's the matter with them?" said Vane. "They must have been at some mischief."

"Mad, I think," said Macey. "All gipsies are half mad, or they wouldn't go about, leading such a miserable life as they do. Song says a gipsy's life is a merry life. Oh, is it? Nice life in wet, cold weather. They don't look very merry, then."

"Never mind: it's nothing to do with us. Come along."

Half-an-hour's walking brought them into the open fields, and as they stood at the end of the lane in the shade of an oak tree, Macey said suddenly:

"I say, there's old Distie yonder. Where has he been? Bet twopence it was to see the gipsies and get his fortune told."

"For a walk as far as here, perhaps, and now he is going back."

Macey said it "seemed rum," and they turned off then to reach Bruff's cottage, close to the little town.

"I don't see anything rum in it," Vane said, quietly.

"Don't you? Well, I do. Gilmore was stopping back to keep him company, wasn't he? Well, where is Gilmore? And why is Distie cutting along so—at such a rate?"

Vane did not reply, and Macey turned to look at him wonderingly.

"Here! Hi! What's the matter?"

Vane started.

"Matter?" he said, "nothing."

"What were you thinking about? Inventing something?"

"Oh, no," said Vane, confusedly. "Well, I was thinking about something I was making."

"Thought so. Well, I am glad I'm not such a Hobby-Bob sort of a fellow as you are. Syme says you're a bit of a genius, ever since you made his study clock go; but you're the worst bowler, batter, and fielder I know; you're not worth twopence at football; and if one plays at anything else with you—spins a top, or flies a kite, or anything of that kind—you're never satisfied without wanting to make the kite carry up a load, or making one top spin on the top of another, and—"

"Take me altogether, I'm the most cranky, disagreeable fellow you ever knew, eh?" said Vane, interrupting.

"Show me anyone who says so, and I'll punch his head," cried Macey, eagerly.

"There he goes. No; he's out of sight now."

"What, old Distie? Pooh! he's nobody, only a creole, and don't count."

The gardener's cottage stood back from the road; its porch covered with roses, and the little garden quite a blaze of autumn flowers; and as they reached it, Vane paused for a moment to admire them.

"Hallo!" cried Macey, "going to improve 'em?"

"They don't want it," said Vane, quietly. "I was thinking that you always see better flowers in cottage gardens than anywhere else."

At that moment the gardener's wife came to the door, smiling at her visitors, and Vane recollected the object of his visit.

"I've brought you these, Mrs Bruff," he said.

"Toadstools, sir?" said the woman, opening her eyes widely.

"No; don't call them by that name," cried Macey, merrily; "they're philogustators."

"Kind of potaters, sir?" said the woman, innocently. "Are they for Eben to grow?"

"No, for you to cook for his tea. Don't say anything, but stew them with a little water and butter, pepper and salt."

"Oh, thank you, sir," cried the woman. "Are they good?"

"Delicious, if you cook them well."

"Indeed I will, sir. Thank you so much."

She took the basket, and wanted to pay for the present with some flowers, but the lads would only take a rosebud each, and went their way, to separate at the turning leading to the rectory gate.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A PROFESSIONAL VISIT.

"Not going up to the rectory?" said the Doctor, next morning.

"No, uncle," said Vane, looking up from a book he was reading. "Joseph came with a note, before breakfast, to say that the rector was going over to Lincoln to-day, and that he hoped I would do a little private study at home."

"Then don't, my dear," said Aunt Hannah. "You read and study too much. Get the others to go out with you for some excursion."

Vane looked at her in a troubled way.

"He was going to excursion into the workshop. Eh, boy?" said the doctor.

"Yes, uncle, I did mean to."

"No, no, no, my dear; get some fresh air while it's fine. Yes, Eliza."

"If you please, ma'am, cook says may she speak to you."

"Yes; send her in," was the reply; and directly after Martha appeared, giving the last touches to secure the clean apron she had put on between kitchen and breakfast-room.

"Cook's cross," said Vane to himself, as his aunt looked up with—

"Well, cook?"

"Sorry to trouble you, ma'am, but I want to know what I'm to do about my vegetables this morning."

"Cook them," said Vane to himself, and then he repeated the words aloud, and added, "not like you did my poor chanterelles."

"Hush, Vane, my dear," said Aunt Hannah, as the cook turned upon him fiercely. "I do not understand what you mean, Martha."

"I mean, ma'am," said the cook, jerkily, but keeping her eyes fixed upon Vane, "that Bruff sent word as he's too ill to come this morning; and I can't be expected to go down gardens, digging potatoes and cutting cauliflowers for dinner. It isn't my place."

"No, no, certainly not, Martha," said Aunt Hannah. "Dear me! I am sorry Bruff is so ill. He was quite well yesterday."

"But I want the vegetables now, ma'am."

"And you shall have them, Martha," said the doctor, rising, bowing, and opening the door for the cook to pass out, which she did, looking wondering and abashed at her master, as if not understanding what he meant.

"Dear me!" continued the doctor, rubbing one ear, and apostrophising his nephew, "what a strange world this is. Now, by and by, Vane, that woman will leave here to marry and exist upon some working man's income, and never trouble herself for a moment about whether it's her place to go down the garden 'to cut a cabbage to make an apple-pie,' as the poet said—or somebody else; but be only too glad to feel that there is a cabbage in the garden to cut, and a potato to dig. Vane, my boy, will you come and hold the basket?"

"No, uncle; I'll soon dig a few, and cut the cauliflower," said Vane, hastily; and he hurried toward the door.

"I'll go with you, my boy," said the doctor; and he went out with his nephew, who was in a state of wondering doubt, respecting the gardener's illness. For suppose that chanterelles were, after all, not good to eat, and he had poisoned the man!

"Come along, Vane. We can find a basket and fork in the tool-house."

The doctor took down his straw hat, and led the way down the garden, looking very happy and contented, but extremely unlike the Savile Row physician, whom patients were eager to consult only a few years before.

Then the tool-house was reached, and he shouldered a four-pronged fork, and Vane took the basket; the row of red kidney potatoes was selected, and the doctor began to dig and turn up a root of fine, well-ripened tubers.

"Work that is the most ancient under the sun, Vane, my boy," said the old gentleman, smiling. "Pick them up."

But Vane did not stir. He stood, basket in hand, thinking; and the more he thought the more uneasy he grew.

"Ready? Pick them up!" cried the doctor. "What are you thinking about, eh?"

Vane gave a jump.

"I beg your pardon, uncle, I was thinking."

"I know that. What about?"

"Bruff being ill."

"Hum! Yes," said the doctor, lifting the fork to remove a potato which he had accidentally impaled. "I think I know what's the matter with Master Bruff."

"So do I, uncle. Will you come on and see him, as soon as we have got enough vegetables?"

"Physician's fee is rather high for visiting a patient, my boy; and Bruff only earns a pound a week. What very fine potatoes!"

"You will come on, won't you, uncle? I'm sure I know what's the matter with him."

"Do you?" said the doctor, turning up another fine root of potatoes. "Without seeing him?"

"Yes, uncle;" and he related what he had done on the previous afternoon.

"Indeed," said the doctor, growing interested. "But you ought to know a chanterelle if you saw one. Are you sure what you gave Mrs Bruff were right?"

"Quite, uncle; I am certain."

"Dear me! But they are reckoned to be perfectly wholesome food. I don't understand it. There, pick up the potatoes, and let's cut the cauliflowers. I'll go and see what's wrong."

Five minutes after the basket was handed in to Martha; and then the doctor washed his hands, changed his hat, and signified to Aunt Hannah where they were going.

"That's right, my dear, I thought you would," said the old lady, beaming. "Going too, Vane, my dear?"

"Yes, aunt."

"That's right. I hope you will find him better."

Vane hoped so, too, in his heart, as he walked with his uncle to the gardener's cottage, conjuring up all kinds of suffering, and wondering whether the man had been ill all the night; and, to make matters worse, a deep groan came from the open bedroom window as they approached.

Vane looked at his uncle in horror.

"Good sign, my boy," said the doctor cheerfully. "Not very bad, or he would not have made that noise. Well, Mrs Bruff," he continued, as the woman appeared to meet them at the door, "so Ebenezer is unwell?"

"Oh, yes, sir, dreadful. He was took badly about two o'clock, and he has been so queer ever since."

"Dear me," said the doctor. "Do you know what has caused it?"

"Yes, sir," said the woman, beginning to sob; "he says it's those nasty toadstools Master Vane brought, and gave me to cook for his tea. Ah, Master Vane, you shouldn't have played us such a trick."

Vane looked appealingly at his uncle, who gave him a reassuring nod.

"You cooked them then?" said the doctor.

"Oh, yes, sir, and we had them for tea, and the nasty things were so nice that we never thought there could be anything wrong."

"What time do you say your husband was taken ill?"

"About two o'clock, sir."

"And what time were you taken ill?"

"Me, sir?" said the woman staring. "I haven't been ill."

"Ah! You did not eat any of the—er—toadstools then?"

"Yes, sir, I did, as many as Ebenezer."

"Humph! What time did your husband come home last night?"

"I don't know, sir, I was asleep. But I tell you it was about two when he woke me up, and said he was so bad."

"Take me upstairs," said the doctor shortly; and he followed the woman up to her husband's room, leaving Vane alone with a sinking heart, and wishing that he had not ventured to give the chanterelles to the gardener's wife.

He could not sit down but walked about, listening to the steps and murmur of voices overhead, meaning to give up all experiments in edible fungi for the future, and ready to jump as he heard the doctor's heavy step again crossing the room, and then descending the stairs, followed by Bruff's wife.

"Do you think him very bad, sir?" she faltered.

"Oh, yes," was the cheerful reply; "he has about as splitting a headache as a poor wretch could have."

"But he will not die, sir?"

"No, Mrs Bruff," said the doctor. "Not just yet; but you may tell him, by-and-by, when you get him downstairs, feeling penitent and miserable, that, if he does not leave off going to the Chequers, he'll have to leave off coming to the Little Manor."

"Why, sir, you don't think that?" faltered the woman.

"No, I do not think, because I am quite sure, Mrs Bruff. He was not hurt by your cookery, but by what he took afterward. You understand?"

"Oh, sir!"

"Come along, Vane. Good-morning, Mrs Bruff," said the doctor, loud enough for his voice to be heard upstairs.

"I am only too glad to come and help when any one is ill; but I don't like coming upon a fool's errand."

The doctor walked out into the road, looking very stern and leaving the gardener's wife in tears, but he turned to Vane with a smile before they had gone far.

"Then you don't think it was the fungi, uncle?" said the lad, eagerly.

"Yes, I do, boy, the produce of something connected with yeast fungi; not your chanterelles."

Vane felt as if a load had been lifted off his conscience.

"Very tiresome, too," said the doctor, "for I wanted to have a chat with Bruff to-day about that greenhouse flue. He says it is quite useless, for the smoke and sulphur get out into the house and kill the plants. Now then, sir, you are such a genius at inventing, why can't you contrive the way to heat the greenhouse without causing me so much expense in the way of fuel, eh? I mean the idea you talked about before. I told Mr Syme it was to be done."

Vane was not ready with an answer to that question, and he set himself to think it out, just as they encountered the gipsy vans again, and the two lads driving the lame pony, at the sight of which the doctor frowned, and muttered something about the police, while the lads favoured Vane with a peculiar look.



CHAPTER NINE.

HOW TO HEAT THE GREENHOUSE.

"Vane, my boy, you are like my old friend Deering," said the doctor one morning.

"Am I, uncle?" said the lad. "I'll have a good look at him if ever I see him."

The doctor laughed.

"I mean he is one of those men who are always trying to invent something fresh; he is a perfect boon to the patent agents."

Vane looked puzzled.

"You don't understand the allusion?"

"No, uncle, I suppose it's something to do with my being fond of—"

"Riding hobbies," said the doctor.

"Oh, I don't want to ride hobbies, uncle," said Vane, in rather an ill-used tone. "I only like to be doing things that seem as if they would be useful."

"And quite right, too, my dear," said Aunt Hannah, "only I do wish you wouldn't make quite such a mess as you do sometimes."

"Yes, it's quite right, mess or no mess," said the doctor pleasantly. "I'm glad to see you busy over something or another, even if it does not always answer. Better than wasting your time or getting into mischief."

"But they always would answer, uncle," said Vane, rubbing one ear in a vexed fashion—"that is, if I could get them quite right."

"Ah, yes, if you could get them quite right. Well, what about the greenhouse? You know I was telling the parson the other day about your plans about the kitchen-boiler and hot-water."

Vane looked for a moment as if he had received too severe a check to care to renew the subject on which he had been talking; but his uncle looked so pleasant and tolerant of his plans that the boy fired up.

"Well, it was like this, uncle: you say it is a great nuisance for any one to have to go out and see to the fire on wet, cold, dark nights."

"So it is, boy. Any one will grant that."

"Yes, uncle, and that's what I want to prevent."

"Well, how?"

"Stop a moment," said Vane. "I've been thinking about this a good deal more since you said you must send for the bricklayer."

"Well, well," said the doctor, "let's hear."

"I expect you'll laugh at me," said Vane; "but I've been trying somehow to get to the bottom of it all."

"Of course; that's the right way," said the doctor; and Aunt Hannah gave an approving nod.

"Well," said Vane; "it seems to me that one fire ought to do all the work."

"So it does, my boy," said the doctor; "but it's a devouring sort of monster and eats up a great deal of coal."

"But I mean one fire ought to do for both the kitchen and the greenhouse, too."

"What, would you have Martha's grate in among the flowers, and let her roast and fry there? That wouldn't do."

"No, no, uncle. Let the greenhouse be heated with hot-water pipes."

"Well?"

"And connect them, as I said before, with the kitchen-boiler."

"As I told Syme," said the doctor.

"No, no, no," cried Aunt Hannah, very decisively. "I'm quite sure that wouldn't do; and I'm certain that Martha would not approve of it."

"Humph!" ejaculated the doctor. "I'm afraid our Martha does not approve of doing anything but what she likes. But that would not do, boy. I told Syme so, but he was hot over it—boiler-hot."

"Well, then, let it be by means of a small boiler fitted somewhere at the side of the kitchen range, uncle; then the one fire will do everything; and, with the exception of a little cost at first, the greenhouse will always afterwards be heated for nothing."

"Come, I like that idea," said the doctor, rubbing his nose. "There's something in that, eh, my dear? Sounds well."

"Yes," said Aunt Hannah, "it sounds very well, but so do all Vane's plans; and, though I like to encourage him so long as he does not make too much mess, I must say that they seldom do anything else but sound."

"Oh, aunt!"

"Well, it's quite true, my dear, and you know it. I could name a dozen things."

"No, no, don't name 'em, aunt," said Vane hurriedly. "I know I have made some mistakes; but then everyone does who tries to invent."

"Then why not let things be as they are, my dear. I'm sure the old corkscrew was better to take out corks than the thing you made."

"It would have been beautiful, aunt," cried Vane, "if—"

"It hadn't broken so many bottles," said the doctor with a humorous look in his eyes. "It wouldn't have mattered if it had been aunt's cowslip wine, but it always chose my best port and sherry."

"And then there was that churn thing," continued Aunt Hannah.

"Oh, come, aunt, that was a success."

"What, a thing that sent all the cream flying out over Martha when she turned the handle! No, my dear, no."

"But you will not see, aunt, that it was because the thing was not properly made."

"Of course I do, my dear," said Aunt Hannah. "That's what I say."

"No, no, aunt, I mean made by a regular manufacturer, with tight lids. That was only a home-made one for an experiment."

"Yes, I know it was, my dear; and I recollect what a rage Martha was in with the thing. I believe that if I had insisted upon her going on using that thing, she would have left."

"I wish you wouldn't keep on calling it a thing, aunt," said Vane, in an ill-used tone; "it was a patent churn."

"Never mind, boy," said the doctor, "yours is the fate of all inventors. People want a deal of persuading to use new contrivances; they always prefer to stick to the old ones."

"Well, my dear, and very reasonably, too," said Aunt Hannah. "You know I like to encourage Vane, but I cannot help thinking sometimes that he is too fond of useless schemes."

"Not useless, aunt."

"Well, then, schemes; and that it would be better if he kept more to his Latin and Greek and mathematics with Mr Syme, and joining the other pupils in their sports."

"Oh, he works hard enough at his studies," said the doctor.

"I'm very glad to hear you say so, my dear," said Aunt Hannah; "and as to the rather unkind remark you made about the churn—"

"No, no, my dear, don't misunderstand me. I meant that people generally prefer to keep to the old-fashioned ways of doing things."

"But, my dear," retorted Aunt Hannah, who had been put out that morning by rebellious acts on the part of Martha, "you are as bad as anyone. See how you threw away Vane's pen-holder that he invented, and in quite a passion, too. I did think there was something in that, for it is very tiresome to have to keep on dipping your pen in the ink when you have a long letter to write."

"Oh, aunty, don't bring up that," said Vane, reproachfully.

But it was too late.

"Hang the thing!" cried the doctor, with a look of annoyance and perplexity on his countenance; "that was enough to put anyone out of temper. The idea was right enough, drawing the holder up full like a syringe, but then you couldn't use it for fear of pressing it by accident, and squirting the ink all over your paper, or on to your clothes. 'Member my new shepherd's-plaid trousers, Vane?"

"Yes, uncle; it was very unfortunate. You didn't quite know how to manage the holder. It wanted studying."

"Studying, boy! Who's going to learn to study a pen-holder. Goose-quill's good enough for me. They don't want study."

Vane rubbed his ear, and looked furtively from one to the other, as Aunt Hannah rose, and put away her work.

"No, my dear," she said, rather decisively; "I'm quite sure that Martha would never approve of anyone meddling with her kitchen-boiler."

She left the room, and Vane sat staring at his uncle, who returned his gaze with droll perplexity in his eyes.

"Aunt doesn't take to it, boy," said the doctor.

"No, uncle, and I had worked it out so thoroughly on paper," cried Vane. "I'm sure it would have been a great success. You see you couldn't do it anywhere, but you could here, because our greenhouse is all against the kitchen wall. You know how well that rose grows because it feels the heat from the fireplace through the bricks?"

"Got your plans—sketches—papers?" said the doctor.

"Yes, uncle," cried the boy, eagerly, taking some sheets of note-paper from his breast. "You can see it all here. This is where the pipe would come out of the top of the boiler, and run all round three sides of the house, and go back again and into the boiler, down at the bottom."

"And would that be enough to heat the greenhouse?"

"Plenty, uncle. I've worked it all out, and got a circular from London, and I can tell you exactly all it will cost—except the bricklayers' work, and that can't be much."

"Can't it?" cried the doctor, laughing. "Let me tell you it just can be a very great deal. I know it of old. There's a game some people are very fond of playing at, Vane. It's called bricks and mortar. Don't you ever play at it much; it costs a good deal of money."

"Oh, but this couldn't cost above a pound or two."

"Humph! No. Not so much as building a new flue, of course. But, look here: how about cold, frosty nights? The kitchen-fire goes out when Martha is off to bed."

"It does now, uncle," said the lad; "but it mustn't when we want to heat the hot-water pipes."

"But that would mean keeping up the fire all night."

"Well, you would do that if you had a stove and flue, uncle."

"Humph, yes."

"And, in this case, the fire on cold winters' nights would be indoors, and help to warm the house."

"So it would," said the doctor, who went on examining the papers very thoughtfully.

"The pipes would be nicer and neater, too, than the brick flue, uncle."

"True, boy," said the doctor, still examining the plans very attentively. "But, look here. Are you pretty sure that this hot-water would run all along the pipes?"

"Quite, uncle, and I did so hope you would let me do it, if only to show old Bruff that he does not know everything."

"But you don't expect me to put my hand in my pocket and pay pounds on purpose to gratify your vanity, boy—not really?" said the doctor.

"No, uncle," cried Vane; "it's only because I want to succeed."

"Ah, well, I'll think it over," said the doctor; and with that promise the boy had to rest satisfied.



CHAPTER TEN.

VANE'S WORKSHOP.

But Vane went at once to the kitchen with the intention of making some business-like measurements of the opening about the range, and to see where a boiler could best be placed. A glance within was sufficient. Martha was busy about the very spot; and Vane turned back, making up his mind to defer his visit till midnight, when the place would be solitary, and the fire out.

There was the greenhouse, though; and, fetching a rule, he went in there, and began measuring the walls once more, to arrive at the exact length of piping required, when he became conscious of a shadow cast from the open door; and, looking up, there stood Bruff, with a grin upon his face—a look so provocative that Vane turned upon him fiercely.

"Well, what are you laughing at?" he cried.

"You, Mester."

"Why?"

"I was thinking as you ought to hev been a bricklayer or carpenter, sir, instead of a scollard, and going up to rectory. Measuring for that there noo-fangle notion of yours?"

"Yes, I am," cried Vane; "and what then?"

"Oh, nowt, sir, nowt, only it wean't do. Only throwing away money."

"How do you know, Bruff?"

"How do I know, sir? Why, arn't I been a gardener ever since I was born amost, seeing as my father and granfa' was gardeners afore me. You tak' my advice, sir, as one as knows. There's only two ways o' heating places, and one's wi' a proper fireplace an' a flue, and t'other's varmentin wi' hot manner."

"Varmentin with hot manner, as you call it. Why, don't they heat the vineries at Tremby Court with hot-water?"

"I've heered you say so, sir, but I niver see it. Tak' my advice, sir, and don't you meddle with things as you don't understand. Remember them taters?"

"Oh, yes, I remember the potatoes, Bruff; and I daresay, if the truth was known, you cut all the eyes out, instead of leaving the strongest, as I told you."

"I don't want no one to teach me my trade," said the man, sulkily; and he shuffled away, leaving Vane wondering why he took so much trouble, only to meet with rebuffs from nearly everyone.

"I might just as well be fishing, or playing cricket, or lying on my back in the sun, like old Distin does. Nobody seems to understand me."

He was standing just inside the door, moodily tapping the side-post with the rule, when he was startled by a step on the gravel, and, looking up sharply, he found himself face to face with a little, keen, dark, well-dressed man, who had entered the gate, seen him standing in the greenhouse, and walked across the lawn, whose mossy grass had silenced his footsteps till he reached the path.

"Morning," he said. "Doctor at home?"

"Yes," replied Vane, looking at the stranger searchingly, and wondering whether he was a visitor whom his uncle would be glad to see.

The stranger was looking searchingly at him, and he spoke at once:—

"You are the nephew, I suppose?"

Vane looked at him wonderingly.

"Yes, I thought so. Father and mother dead, and the doctor bringing you up. Lucky fellow! Here, what does this mean?" and he pointed to the rule.

"I was measuring," said Vane, colouring.

"Ah! Thought you were to be a clergyman or a doctor. Going to be a carpenter?"

"No," replied Vane sharply, and feeling full of resentment at being questioned so by a stranger. "I was measuring the walls."

"What for?" said the stranger, stepping into the greenhouse and making the lad draw back.

"Well, if you must know, sir—"

"No, I see. Old flue worn-out;—measuring for a new one."

Vane shook his head, and, in spite of himself, began to speak out freely, the stranger seeming to draw him.

"No; I was thinking of hot-water pipes."

"Good! Modern and better. Always go in for improvements. Use large ones."

"Do you understand heating with hot-water, sir?"

"A little," said the stranger, smiling. "Where are you going to make your furnace?"

"I wasn't going to make one."

"Going to do it with cold hot-water then?" said the stranger, smiling again.

"No, of course not. The kitchen-fireplace is through there," said Vane, pointing with his rule, "and I want to put a boiler in, so that the one fire will answer both purposes."

"Good! Excellent!" said the stranger sharply. "Your own idea?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do it, then, as soon as you can—before the winter. Now take me in to your uncle."

Vane looked at him again, and now with quite a friendly feeling for the man who could sympathise with his plans.

He led the stranger to the front door, and was about to ask him his name, when the doctor came out of his little study.

"Ah, Deering," he said quietly, "how are you? Who'd have thought of seeing you."

"Not you, I suppose," said the visitor quietly. "I was at Lincoln on business, and thought I would come round your way as I went back to town."

"Glad to see you, man: come in. Vane, lad, find your aunt, and tell her Mr Deering is here."

"Can't see that I'm much like him," said Vane to himself, as he went in search of his aunt, and saw her coming downstairs.

"Here's Mr Deering, aunt," he said, "and uncle wants you."

"Oh, dear me!" cried Aunt Hannah, looking troubled, and beginning to arrange her collar and cuffs.

"Why did uncle say that I was like Mr Deering, aunt?" whispered Vane. "I'm not a bit. He's dark and I'm fair."

"He meant like him in his ways, my dear: always dreaming about new inventions, and making fortunes out of nothing. I do hope your uncle will not listen to any of his wild ideas."

This description of the visitor excited Vane's curiosity. One who approved of his plans respecting the heating of the greenhouse was worthy of respect, and Vane was in no way dissatisfied to hear that Mr Deering was quite ready to accept the doctor's hospitality for a day or two.

That afternoon, as Aunt Hannah did not show the least disposition to leave the doctor and his guest alone, the latter rose and looked at Vane.

"I should like a walk," he said. "Suppose you take me round the garden, squire."

Vane followed him out eagerly; and as soon as they were in the garden, the visitor said quickly:—

"Got a workshop?"

Vane flushed a little.

"Only a bit of a shed," he said. "It was meant to be a cow-house, but uncle lets me have it to amuse myself in."

"Show it to me," said the visitor.

"Wouldn't you rather come round the grounds to have a look at uncle's fruit?" said Vane hurriedly.

"No. Why do you want to keep me out of your den?"

"Well, it's so untidy."

"Workshops generally are. Some other reason."

"I have such a lot of failures," said Vane hurriedly.

"Blunders and mistakes, I suppose, in things you have tried to make?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

Vane would far rather have led their visitor in another direction, but there was a masterful decided way about him that was not to be denied, and the lad led him into the large shed which had been floored with boards and lined, so as to turn it into quite a respectable workshop, in which were, beside a great heavy deal table in the centre, a carpenter's bench, and a turning lathe, while nails were knocked in everywhere, shelves ran from end to end, and the place presented to the eye about as strange a confusion of odds and ends as could have been seen out of a museum.

Vane looked at the visitor as he threw open the door, expecting to hear a derisive burst of laughter, but he stepped in quietly enough, and began to take up and handle the various objects which took his attention, making remarks the while.

"You should not leave your tools lying about like this: the edges get dulled, and sometimes they grow rusty. Haven't you a tool-chest?"

"There is uncle's old one," said Vane.

"Exactly. Then, why don't you keep them in the drawers?—Humph! Galvanic battery!"

"Yes; it was uncle's."

"And he gives it to you to play with, eh?"

Vane coloured again.

"I was trying to perform some experiments with it."

"Oh, I see. Well, it's a very good one; take care of it. Little chemistry, too, eh?"

"Yes: uncle shows me sometimes how to perform experiments."

"But he does not show you how to be neat and orderly."

"Oh, this is only a place to amuse oneself in!" said Vane.

"Exactly, but you can get ten times the amusement out of a shop where everything is in its place and there's a place for everything. Now, suppose I wanted to perform some simple experiment, say, to show what convection is, with water, retort and spirit lamp?"

"Convection?" said Vane, thoughtfully, as if he were searching in his mind for the meaning of a word he had forgotten.

"Yes," said the visitor, smiling. "Surely you know what convection is."

"I've forgotten," said Vane, shaking his head. "I knew once."

"Then you have not forgotten. You've got it somewhere packed away. Head's untidy, perhaps, as your laboratory."

"I know," cried Vane—"convection: it has to do with water expanding and rising when it is hot and descending when it is cold."

"Of course it has," said the visitor, laughing, "why you were lecturing me just now on the art of heating greenhouses by hot-water circulating through pipes; well, what makes it circulate?"

"The heat."

"Of course, by the law of convection."

Vane rubbed one ear.

"You had not thought of that?"

"No."

"Ah, well, you will not forget it again. But, as I was saying—suppose I wanted to try and perform a simple experiment to prove, on a small scale, that the pipes you are designing would heat. I cannot see the things I want, and I'll be bound to say you have them somewhere here."

"Oh, yes: I've got them all somewhere."

"Exactly. Take my advice, then, and be a little orderly. I don't mean be a slave to order. You understand?"

"Oh, yes," said Vane, annoyed, but at the same time pleased, for he felt that the visitor's remarks were just.

"Humph! You have rather an inventive turn then, eh?"

"Oh, no," cried Vane, disclaiming so grand a term, "I only try to make a few things here sometimes on wet days."

"Pretty often, seemingly," said the visitor, peering here and there. "Silk-winding, collecting. What's this? Trying to make a steam engine?"

"No, not exactly an engine; but I thought that perhaps I might make a little machine that would turn a wheel."

"And supply you with motive-power. Well, I will tell you at once that it would not."

"Why not?" said Vane, with a little more confidence, as he grew used to his companion's abrupt ways.

"Because you have gone the wrong way to work, groping along in the dark. I'll be bound to say," he continued, as he stood turning over the rough, clumsy contrivance upon which he had seized—a bit of mechanism which had cost the boy a good many of his shillings, and the blacksmith much time in filing and fitting in an extremely rough way—"that Newcomen and Watt and the other worthies of the steam engine's early days hit upon exactly the same ideas. It is curious how men in different places, when trying to contrive some special thing, all start working in the same groove."

"Then you think that is all stupid and waste of time, sir?"

"I did not say so. By no means. The bit of mechanism is of no use— never can be, but it shows me that you have the kind of brain that ought to fit you for an engineer, and the time you have spent over this has all been education. It will teach you one big lesson, my lad. When you try to invent anything again, no matter how simple, don't begin at the very beginning, but seek out what has already been done, and begin where others have left off—making use of what is good in their work as a foundation for yours."

"Yes, I see now," said Vane. "I shall not forget that."

Their visitor laughed.

"Then you will be a very exceptional fellow, Vane Lee. But, there, I hope you will not forget. Humph!" he continued, looking round, "You have a capital lot of material here: machinery and toys. No, I will not call them toys, because these playthings are often the parents of very useful machines. What's that—balloon?"

"An attempt at one," replied Vane.

"Oh, then, you have been trying to solve the flying problem."

"Yes," cried Vane excitedly; "have you?"

"Yes, I have had my season of thought over it, my lad; and I cannot help thinking that it will some day be mastered or discovered by accident."

Vane's lips parted, and he rested his elbows on the workbench, placed his chin in his hands, and gazed excitedly in his companion's face.

"And how do you think it will be done?"

"Ah, that's a difficult question to answer, boy. There is the problem to solve. All I say is, that if we have mastered the water and can contrive a machine that will swim like a fish—"

"But we have not," said Vane.

"Indeed! Then what do you call an Atlantic liner, with the propeller in its tail?"

"But that swims on the top of the water."

"Of course it does, because the people on board require air to breathe. Otherwise it could be made to swim beneath the water as a fish does, and at twenty miles an hour."

"Yes: I did not think of that."

"Well, as we have conquered the water to that extent, I do not see why we should not master the air."

"We can rise in balloons."

"Yes, but the balloon is clumsy and unmanageable. It will not do."

"What then, sir?"

"That's it, my boy, what then? It is easy to contrive a piece of mechanism with fans that will rise in the air, but when tried on a large scale, to be of any real service, I'm afraid it would fail."

"Then why not something to fly like a bird or a bat?" said Vane eagerly.

"No; the power required to move the great flapping wings would be too weighty for it; and, besides, I always feel that there is a something in a bird or bat which enables it to make itself, bulk for bulk, the same weight as the atmosphere."

"But that seems impossible," said Vane.

"Seems, but it may not be so. Fifty years ago the man would have been laughed at who talked about sending a message to Australia and getting the answer back the same day, but we do not think much of it now. We would have thought of the Arabian Nights, and magicians, if a man had spoken to some one miles away, then listened to his tiny whisper answering back; but these telephonic communications are getting to be common business matters now. Why, Vane, when I was a little boy photography or light-writing was only being thought of: now people buy accurate likenesses of celebrities at a penny a piece on barrows in London streets."

Vane nodded.

"To go back to the flying," continued his companion, "I have thought and dreamed over it a great deal, but without result. I am satisfied, though, of one thing, and it is this, that some birds possess the power of gliding about in the air merely by the exercise of their will. I have watched great gulls floating along after a steamer at sea, by merely keeping their wings extended. At times they would give a slight flap or two, but not enough to affect their progress—it has appeared to me more to preserve their balance. And, again, in one of the great Alpine passes, I have watched the Swiss eagle—the Lammergeyer—rise from low down and begin sailing round and round, hardly beating with his wings, but always rising higher and higher in a vast spiral, till he was above the mountain-tops which walled in the sides of the valley. Then I have seen him sail right away. There is something more in nature connected with flight, which we have not yet discovered. I will not say that we never shall, for science is making mighty strides. There," he added, merrily, "end of the lecture. Let's go out in the open air."

Vane sighed.

"I came from London, my boy, where all the air seems to be second-hand. Out here on this slope of the wolds, the breeze gives one life and strength. Take me for a walk, out in the woods, say, it will do me good, and make me forget the worries and cares of life."

"Are you inventing something?"

Mr Deering gave the lad a sharp look, and nodded his head.

"May I ask what, sir?"

"No, my boy, you may not," said Mr Deering, sadly. "Perhaps I am going straightway on the road to disappointment and failure; but I must go on now. Some day you will hear. Now take me where I can breathe. Oh, you happy young dog!" he cried merrily. "What a thing it is to be a boy!"

"Is it?" said Vane, quietly.

"Yes, it is. And you, sir, think to yourself, like the blind young mole you are, what a great thing it is to be a man. There, come out into the open air, and let's look at nature; I get very weary sometimes of art."

Vane looked wonderingly at his new friend and did not feel so warmly toward him as he had a short time before, but this passed off when they were in the garden, where he admired the doctor's fruit, waxed eloquent over the apples and pears, and ate one of the former with as much enjoyment as a boy.

He was as merry as could be, too, and full of remarks as the doctor's Jersey cow and French poultry were inspected, but at his best in the woods amongst the gnarled old oaks and great beeches, seeming never disposed to tire.

That night Mr Deering had a very long consultation with the doctor; and Vane noted that his aunt looked very serious indeed, but she said nothing till after breakfast the next morning, when their visitor had left them for town, and evidently in the highest spirits.

"Let that boy go on with his whims, doctor," he said aloud, in Vane's hearing. "He had better waste a little money in cranks and eccentrics than in toffee and hard-bake. Good-bye."

And he was gone as suddenly, so it seemed to Vane, as he had come.

It was then that Vane heard his aunt say:

"Well, my dear, I hope it is for the best. It will be a very serious thing for us if it should go wrong."

"Very," said the doctor drily; and Vane wondered what it might be.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

OILING THE CLOCK.

The plan of the town of Mavis Greythorpe was very simple, being one long street with houses on either side, placed just as the builders pleased. Churchwarden Rounds' long thatched place stood many yards back, which was convenient, for he liked to grow roses that his neighbours could see and admire. Crumps the cowkeeper's, too, stood some distance back, but that was handy, for there was room for the cowshed and the dairy close to the path. Dredge, the butcher, had his open shop, too—a separate building from the house at the back—close to the path, where customers could see the mortal remains of one sheep a week, sometimes two, and in the cold weather a pig, and a half or third of a "beast," otherwise a small bullock, the other portions being retained by neighbouring butchers at towns miles away, where the animal had been slain. But at fair time and Christmas, Butcher, or, as he pronounced it, Buttcher Dredge, to use his own words, "killed hissen" and a whole bullock was on exhibition in his open shop.

The houses named give a fair idea of the way in which architecture was arranged for in Mavis; every man who raised a house planted it where it seemed good in his own eyes; and as in most cases wayfarers stepped down out of the main street into the front rooms, the popular way of building seemed to have been that the builder dug a hole and then put a house in it.

Among those houses which were flush with the main street was that of Michael Chakes, clerk and sexton, who was also the principal shoemaker of Mavis, and his place of business was a low, open-windowed room with bench and seat, where, when not officially engaged, he sat at work, surrounded by the implements and products of his trade, every now and then opening his mouth and making a noise after repeating a couple of lines, under the impression that he was singing. Upon that point opinions differed.

Vane Lee wanted a piece of leather, and as there was nothing at home that he could cut up, saving one of the doctor's Wellington boots, which were nearly new, he put on his cap, thrust his hands in his pockets, and set off for the town street, as eagerly as if his success in life depended upon his obtaining that piece of leather instanter.

The place was perfectly empty as he reached the south end, the shops looked nearly the same, save that at Grader the baker's there were four covered glasses, containing some tasteless looking biscuits full of holes; a great many flies, hungry and eager to get out, walking in all directions over the panes; and on the lowest shelf Grader's big tom-cat, enjoying a good sleep in the sun.

Vane did not want any of those biscuits, but just then he caught sight of Distin crossing the churchyard, and to avoid him he popped in at the baker's, to be saluted by a buzz from the flies, and a slow movement on the part of the cat who rose, raised his back into a high arch, yawned and stretched, and then walked on to the counter, and rubbed his head against Vane's buttons, as the latter thrust his hands into his pocket for a coin, and tapped on the counter loudly once, then twice, then the third time, but there was no response, for the simple reason that Mrs Grader had gone to talk to a neighbour, and John Grader, having risen at three to bake his bread, and having delivered it after breakfast, was taking a nap.

"Oh, what a sleepy lot they are here!" muttered Vane, as he went to the door which, as there was no sign of Distin now, and he did not want any biscuits, he passed, and hurried along the street to where Michael Chakes sat in his open window, tapping away slowly at the heavy sole of a big boot which he was ornamenting with rows of hob-nails.

Vane stepped in at once, and the sexton looked up, nodded, and went on nailing again.

"Oughtn't to put the nails so close, Mike."

"Nay, that's the way to put in nails, Mester Vane!" said the sexton.

"But if they were open they'd keep a man from slipping in wet and frost."

"Don't want to keep man from slipping, want to make 'em weer."

"Oh, all right; have it your own way. Here, I want a nice strong new bit of leather, about six inches long."

"What for?"

"Never you mind what for, get up and sell me a bit."

"Nay, I can't leave my work to get no leather to-day, Mester. Soon as I've putt in these here four nails, I'm gooing over to belfry."

"What for? Some one dead?"

"Nay, not they. Folk weant die a bit now, Mester Vane. I dunno whether it's Parson Syme's sarmints or what, but seems to me as if they think it's whole dooty a man to live to hundred and then not die."

"Nonsense, cut me my bit of leather, and let me go."

"Nay, sir, I can't stop to coot no leather to-day. I tellee I'm gooin' to church."

"But what for?"

"Clock's stopped."

"Eh! Has it?" cried Vane eagerly. "What's the matter with it?"

"I d'know sir. Somethin' wrong in its inside, I spect. I'm gooing to see."

"Forgotten to wind it up, Mike."

"Nay, that I arn't, sir. Wound her up tight enew."

"Then that's it. Wound up too tight, perhaps."

"Nay, she's been wound up just the same as I've wound her these five-and-twenty year, just as father used to. She's wrong inside."

"Goes stiff. Wants a little oil. Bring some in a bottle with a feather and I'll soon put it right."

The sexton pointed with his hammer to the chimney-piece where a small phial bottle was standing, and Vane took it up at once, and began turning a white fowl's feather round to stir up the oil.

"You mean to come, then?" said the sexton.

"Of course. I'm fond of machinery," cried Vane.

"Ay, you be," said the sexton, tapping away at the nails, "and you'd like to tak' that owd clock all to pieces, I know."

"I should," cried Vane with his eyes sparkling. "Shall I?"

"What?" cried the sexton, with his hammer raised. "Why, you'd never get it put together again."

"Tchah! that I could. I would somehow," added the lad. "Ay somehow; but what's the good o' that! Suppose she wouldn't goo when you'd putt her together somehow. What then?"

"Why, she won't go now," cried Vane, "so what harm would it do?"

"Well, I don't know about that," said the sexton, driving in the last nail, and pausing to admire the iron-decorated sole.

"Now, then, cut my piece of leather," cried Vane.

"Nay, I can't stop to coot no pieces o' leather," said the sexton. "Church clock's more consekens than all the bits o' leather in a tanner's yard. I'm gooing over yonder now."

"Oh, very well," said Vane, as the man rose, untied his leathern apron, and put on a very ancient coat, "it will do when we come back."

"Mean to go wi' me, then?"

"Of course I do."

The sexton chuckled, took his hat from behind the door, and stepped out on to the cobble-stone pathway, after taking the oil bottle and a bunch of big keys from a nail.

The street looked as deserted as if the place were uninhabited, and not a soul was passed as they went up to the church gate at the west end of the ancient edifice, which had stood with its great square stone fortified tower, dominating from a knoll the tiny town for five hundred years—ever since the days when it was built to act as a stronghold to which the Mavis Greythorpites could flee if assaulted by enemies, and shoot arrows from the narrow windows and hurl stones from the battlements. Or, if these were not sufficient, and the enemy proved to be very enterprising indeed, so much so as to try and batter in the hugely-thick iron-studded belfry-door, why there were those pleasant openings called by architects machicolations, just over the entrance, from which ladlesful of newly molten lead could be scattered upon their heads.

Michael Chakes knew the bunch of keys by heart, but he always went through the same ceremony—that of examining them all four, and blowing in the tubes, as if they were panpipes, keeping the one he wanted to the last.

"Oh, do make haste, Mike," cried the boy. "You are so slow."

"Slow and sewer's my motter, Mester Vane," grunted the sexton, as he slowly inserted the key. "Don't you hurry no man's beast; you may hev an ass of your own some day."

"If I do I'll make him go faster than you do. I say, though, Mike, do you think it's true about those old bits of leather?"

As he spoke, Vane pointed to a couple of scraps of black-looking, curl-edged hide, fastened with broad headed nails to the belfry-door.

"True!" cried the sexton, turning his grim, lined, and not over-clean face to gaze in the frank-looking handsome countenance beside him. "True! Think o' that now, and you going up to rectory every day, to do your larning along with the other young gents, to Mester Syme. Well, that beats all."

"What's that got to do with it?" cried Vane, as the sexton ceased from turning the key in the door, and laid one hand on the scraps of hide.

"Got to do wi' it, lad? Well I am! And to call them leather."

"Well, so they are leather," said Vane. "And do you mean to say, standing theer with the turn-stones all around you as you think anything bout t'owd church arn't true?"

"No, but I don't think it's true about those bits of leather."

"Leather, indeed!" cried the sexton. "I'm surprised at you, Mester Vane—that I am. Them arn't leather but all that's left o' the skins o' the Swedums and Danes as they took off 'em and nailed up on church door to keep off the rest o' the robbin', murderin' and firin' wretches as come up river in their ships and then walked the rest o' the way across the mash?"

"Oh, but it might be a bit of horse skin."

"Nay, nay, don't you go backslidin' and thinking such a thing as that, mester. Why, theer was a party o' larned gentlemen come one day all t'way fro' Lincoln, and looked at it through little tallerscope things, and me standing close by all the time to see as they didn't steal nowt, for them sort's terruble folk for knocking bits off wi' hammers as they carries in their pockets and spreadin' bits o' calico over t' brasses, and rubbin' 'em wi' heel balls same as I uses for edges of soles; and first one and then another of 'em says—'Human.' That's what they says. Ay, lad, that's true enough, and been here to this day."

"Ah, well, open the door, Mike, and let's go in. I don't believe people would have been such wretches as to skin a man, even if he was a Dane, and then nail the skin up there. But if they did, it wouldn't have lasted."

The sexton shook his head very solemnly and turned the great key, the rusty lock-bolt shooting back reluctantly, and the door turning slowly on its hinges, which gave forth a dismal creak.

"Here, let's give them a drop of oil," cried Vane; but the sexton held the bottle behind him.

"Nay, nay," he said; "they're all right enew. Let 'em be, lad."

"How silent it seems without the old clock ticking," said Vane, looking up at the groined roof where, in place of bosses to ornament the handsome old ceiling of the belfry, there were circular holes intended to pour more lead and arrows upon besiegers, in case they made their way through the door, farther progress being through a narrow lancet archway and up an extremely small stone spiral staircase toward which Vane stepped, but the sexton checked him.

"Nay, Mester, I go first," he said.

"Look sharp then."

But the only thing sharp about the sexton were his awls and cutting knives, and he took an unconscionably long time to ascend to the floor above them where an opening in the staircase admitted them to a square chamber, lighted by four narrow lancet windows, and into which hung down from the ceiling, and through as many holes, eight ropes, portions of which were covered with worsted to soften them to the ringers' hands.

Vane made a rush for the rope of the tenor bell, but the sexton uttered a cry of horror.

"Nay, nay, lad," he said, as soon as he got his breath, "don't pull: 'twould make 'em think there's a fire."

"Oh, all right," said Vane, leaving the rope.

"Nay, promise as you weant touch 'em, or I weant go no further."

"I promise," cried Vane merrily. "Now, then, up you go to the clock."

The sexton looked relieved, and went to a broad cupboard at one side of the chamber, opened it, and there before them was the great pendulum of the old clock hanging straight down, and upon its being started swinging, it did so, but with no answering tic-tac.

"Where are the weights, Mike?" cried Vane, thrusting in his head, and looking up. "Oh, I see them."

"Ay, you can see 'em, lad, wound right up. There, let's go and see."

The sexton led the way up to the next floor, but here they were stopped by a door, which was slowly opened after he had played his tune upon the key pipes.

"Oh I say, Mike, what a horrible old bore you are," cried the boy, impatiently.

"Then thou shouldstna hev coom, lad," said the sexton as they stood now in a chamber through which the bell ropes passed and away up through eight more holes in the next ceiling, while right in the middle stood the skeleton works of the great clock, with all its wheels and escapements open to the boy's eager gaze, as he noted everything, from the portion which went out horizontally through the wall to turn the hands on the clock's face, to the part where the pendulum hung, and on either side the two great weights which set the machine in motion, and ruled the striking of the hours.

The clock was screwed down to a frame-work of oaken beams, and looked, in spite of its great age and accumulation of dust, in the best of condition, and, to the sexton's horror, Vane forgot all about the eight big bells overhead, and the roof of the tower, from which there was a magnificent view over the wolds, and stripped off his jacket.

"What are you going to do, lad?" cried the sexton.

"See what's the matter. Why the clock won't go."

"Nay, nay, thou must na touch it, lad. Why, it's more than my plaace is worth to let anny one else touch that theer clock."

"Oh, nonsense! Here, give me the oil."

Vane snatched the bottle, and while the sexton looked on, trembling at the sacrilege, as it seemed to him, the lad busily oiled every bearing that he could reach, and used the oil so liberally that at last there was not a drop left, and he ceased his task with a sigh.

"There, Mike, she'll go now," he cried. "Can't say I've done any harm."

"Nay, I wean't say that you hev, mester, for I've been standing ready to stop you if you did."

Vane laughed.

"Now, then, start the pendulum," he said; "and then put the hands right."

He went to the side to start the swinging regulator himself but the sexton again stopped him.

"Nay," he said; "that's my job, lad;" and very slowly and cautiously he set the bob in motion.

"There, I told you so," cried Vane; "only wanted a drop of oil."

For the pendulum swung tic—tac—tic—tac with beautiful regularity. Then, as they listened it went tic—tic. Then tic two or three times over, and there was no more sound.

"Didn't start it hard enough, Mike," cried Vane; and this time, to the sexton's horror, he gave the pendulum a good swing, the regular tic—tac followed, grew feeble, stopped, and there was an outburst as if of uncanny laughter from overhead, so real that it was hard to think that it was only a flock of jackdaws just settled on the battlements of the tower.