"Get out!" growled Pete, kicking the dog in the leg. There was a loud yelp, and Pete shook himself and began to slouch away.

Tom watched him till he had disappeared among the trees, and then went back over his track till he stood close to the spot whence the lad had appeared. Here Tom looked round, but nothing was visible till he had gone a few yards to his right, when, to his surprise, he came to the side of the opening down in which was the side hole running beneath the roots of the great fir.

Tom had another look back, and, seeing nothing, he leaped down on to the soft sand, felt in his pocket, and brought out a tin box of wax-matches. Then, dropping upon his knees, he lit one, and holding it before him, crept under the roots and into a little cave like a low rugged tunnel scooped out of the sandy rock, and in one corner of which was a heap of little pine boughs, and an exceedingly dirty old ragged blanket.

By this time Tom's match went out, and he lit another, after carefully placing the burnt end of the first in his pocket.

This light gave him another view of the little hole, for it was quite small, but there was not much to see. There were the leaves and blanket, both still warm; there was a stick, and a peg driven into the side, on which hung a couple of wires; and some pine-tree roots bristled from the top and sides. That was all.

"No pears, not even a plum-stone," said Tom, in a disappointed tone, for he had pictured this hole from which he had seen Pete issue as a kind of robber's cave, in which he would find stored up quantities of stolen fruit, and perhaps other things that would prove to be of intense interest.

"Nothing—nothing at all," said Tom to himself, as the last match he had burned became extinct. "All this trouble for that, and perhaps it wasn't him after all. But how comic!" he said to himself after a pause. "He comes here so as to be away from that dreadful old woman. No wonder."

He was in the act of placing his last extinct scrap of match in his pocket, as he stood in a stooping position facing the mouth of the little cave, when he heard a faint rustling sound, and directly after something seemed to leap right in at the entrance, disturbing the pendulous fringe of exposed roots which hung down, and crouching in the dim light close to Tom's feet.

"Rabbit!" he said to himself.

But the next moment he saw that it was not alive, for it lay there in a peculiar distorted fashion; and as his eyes grew more used to the gloom, he saw that there was a wire about the poor animal cutting it nearly in two, and a portion of a strong wooden peg protruded from beneath.

"I begin to see now," muttered Tom. "I dare say I should find the place somewhere about where he cooks his rabbits, unless he sells them."

Tom wanted to get out now. The poaching was nothing to him, he thought, and he seemed to have been wrong about the fruit, so he was ready to hurry away, but something within him made him resent the idea of being seen prying there; and it was evident that Pete had been out looking at his wires, and had just brought this rabbit home.

"Perhaps he has gone now," thought Tom; but he did not stir, waiting till he thought all was clear. Then at the end of a quarter of an hour he crept out into the open hole, raised his head cautiously, and got his eyes above the edge, when, to his disgust, he saw that Pete was approaching hurriedly, swinging another rabbit by the legs.

Tom shot back quickly enough into Pete's lurking-place, and turned to face him if the fellow came in. He did not think he was afraid of Pete, but all the same he did not feel disposed to have a tussle before breakfast. Besides, his leg was rather stiff and painful from the blows David had given to him.

But he had little time for thinking. All at once the rushing sound began again, accompanied by a shuffling and a hoarse "Get out," followed by the sound of a blow, and directly after by a sharp yelp.

Then there was a dull thud as the light was momentarily obscured, and another rabbit caught in a wire was thrown in.

"Now for it," thought Tom, and he involuntarily stretched out his hand to seize the stick close to the bed, but clenched his fist instead, and stood there in his confined stooping position ready to defend himself, but sorry that he had not boldly gone out at once.

Suddenly there was a fresh darkening of the light, and Tom did seize the stout stick and hold it lance fashion, for the dog had leaped down into the hole, and now stood at the little entrance to the cave growling savagely.

"Let 'em alone," cried Pete, "d'yer hear? Let 'em alone."

But the dog paid no heed. It stood there with its eyes glaring, showing its teeth, and threatening unheard-of worryings of the interloper.

Still Pete did not grasp the situation. The dog in his estimation was disobeying him by attempting to worry dead rabbits; and, leaping down into the hole, he kicked savagely at it, making it yelp loudly and bound out of the hole, Pete, whose legs up to the waist had now been visible to Tom, scrambling after the animal, abusing it with every epithet he could think of, and driving it before him through the wood.

"My chance," thought Tom, and he sprang out, and making a circuit, struck out for home without seeing either Pete or his dog again.

But Tom did not feel satisfied, for it seemed to him that he was behaving in a cowardly way; and as he tramped along the lane, he wished that he had walked out boldly and confronted his enemy instead of remaining in hiding. Taken altogether, he felt thoroughly grumpy as he approached the cottage, and it did not occur to him that his sensation of depression had a very simple origin. In fact it was this. He had risen before the sun, and had a very long walk, going through a good deal of exertion without having broken his fast. When breakfast was half over he felt in the highest spirits, for his uncle had made no allusion to the adventure in the garden over-night.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

Tom saw very little of Pete Warboys during the next fortnight or so. The fruit kept on ripening, and twice over raids were made upon the garden, but whoever stole the fruit left no clue but a few footmarks behind, and these were always made by bare feet.

"It's that there Pete," said David; "but foots is foots, and I don't see how we can swear as they marks is hisn."

Meanwhile the telescope progressed, and busy work was in progress in the mill, where a large tube was being constructed by securing thin narrow boards planed very accurately to half-a-dozen iron hoops by means of screws and nuts.

Then came a day when Uncle Richard found that he must go to town again to get sundry fittings from an optician, and Tom was left the task of grinding three small pieces of plate-glass together, so as to produce one that was an accurate plane or flat.

It was understood that Uncle Richard would not be back for three days, and after seeing him off, Tom felt important in being left in full charge, as he was in the lower part of the mill polishing away when the door was darkened.

"How are you getting on, sir?" said David, as he stood there smiling.

"Pretty well; but this is a long job."

"What are you doing, sir?"

"Polishing these glasses together so as to get one of them perfectly flat."

"Tchah! that's easy enough. What d'yer want 'em so flat for?"

"So as to make a reflector that will send back a ray of light quite exact—a perfect mirror."

"That's a looking-glass, arn't it, sir?"

"Yes."

"I wish you'd make one, sir, as would work o' nights, and show us when Pete Warboys comes arter my pippins. That'd bang all yer tallow-scoops."

"Impossible, David."

"Yes, sir, s'posed so when I said it. But I say, Master Tom."

"Yes."

"That chap's sure to know as your uncle's gone to London for two or three days."

"Yes; you can't move here without its being known, David," said Tom, polishing away, and making his fingers dirty.

"Then, don't you see, sir?"

"No; what?"

"Pete'll be coming to-night, as sure as there's meat in eggs."

"Think so?" said Tom, who felt a peculiar thrill run through him.

"I'm sure on it, sir. There is a deal o' fruit left to pick yet, and you and me can do that little job better than Pete Warboys."

"Let's go down and watch then."

"Will you, sir?"

"Yes, David, I'll come. But don't go to sleep this time."

"Nay, I won't trust you," said the gardener, laughing softly. "You'll get hitting at me again instead of at Pete. I arn't forgetted that swipe you give me that night."

"Well, you gave it back to me with interest," said Tom.

"Ay, that's so, sir; I did. But it wouldn't do for master to come and find all our late apples gone."

"What time shall we begin then?"

"Not a minute later than six, sir."

And punctually to that hour Tom stole down the garden and found David, who began to chuckle softly—

"Got yer stick, Master Tom?"

"Yes; got yours?"

"No, sir, I've got something better. Feel this."

"A rope?"

"Yes, sir, and a noose in it, as runs easy."

"To tie him?"

"To lash-show him, sir. We'll go down to the bottom where he's most likely to come over, and then I'll catch him and hold him, and you shall let him have it."

The ambush was made—a gooseberry ambush, Tom called it—and for quite an hour Tom knelt on a sack waiting patiently, but there was not a sound, and he was beginning to think it a miserably tiresome task, when all at once, as they crouched there securely hidden, watching the wall, some eight feet away, it seemed to Tom that he could see a peculiar rounded black fungus growing out of the top.

It was very indistinct, and the growth was very slow, but it certainly increased, and the boy stretched out his hand to reach over an intervening gooseberry-bush so as to touch David, but he touched an exceedingly sharp thorn instead and winced, but fortunately made no noise.

Hoping that David had seen what was before him, Tom waited for a few moments, with the dark excrescence still gradually growing, till he could contain himself no longer, and reaching this time with his stick, he gave the gardener a pretty good poke, when the return pressure told him that this time his companion was well upon the alert.

All at once, when the dark object had grown up plainly into a head and shoulders, it ceased increasing, and remained perfectly motionless, as if a careful observation was being made by some one watchful in the extreme.

"Why don't David throw?" thought Tom, who held himself ready to spring forward at a moment's notice, "He could not help catching him now."

But David made no signal, and Tom crouched there with his nerves tingling, waiting in the darkness for the time when he must begin.

At the end of about ten minutes there was a quick rustling sound, the dark shadow altered its shape, and Tom saw that whoever it was lay straight along upon the wall perfectly motionless for a few minutes longer as if listening intently. Then very quickly there was another motion, a sharp rustling, and the intruder dropped upon the ground.

It was too dark to see what followed, but Tom knew that David had risen slowly upright, and uttered a grunt as he threw something, evidently the lasso; for there was a dull sound, then a rush and a scrambling and crashing, as of some one climbing up the wall, and lastly David shouted—

"Got him, sir. Let him have it."

Tom darted forward and came in contact with the rope, which was strained tightly from where David hung back to the top of the wall, the lassoed thief having rushed back as soon as touched by the rope, reached the top of the wall, and threw himself over, to hang there just below quite fast, but struggling violently, and making a hoarse noise like some wild beast.

"At him, Master Tom! Give it him!"

Tom wanted no urging; he seized the rope and tried to draw the captive back into the garden, but the effort was vain, so leaving it he drew back, took a run and a jump, scrambled on to the top of the wall, so as to lean over, and then began thrashing away with his stout hazel as if he were beating a carpet.

Thud, thud—whack, whack, he delivered his blows at the struggling object below, and at every whish of the stick there was a violent kick and effort to get free. Once the stick was seized, but only held for a moment before it was dragged away, and then, thud, thud, thud, the blows fell heavily, while, in an intense state of excitement, the gardener kept on shouting—

"Harder, harder, Master Tom! Sakes, I wish I was there! Harder, sir, harder! Let him have it! Stop him! Ah!"

There was a rustling, scrambling sound on Tom's side of the wall, and the cracking of the stick, which had come in contact with the bricks, for the prisoner had escaped, and his footsteps could be faintly heard, as he dashed over the grassy field into the darkness, where Tom felt it would be useless to pursue.

But just then he did not possess the power, for he could only lean there over the wall, and laugh in a way that was quite exhausting, and it was not until David had been growling and muttering for some minute or two that he was able to speak.

"What made you let him go, David?" he panted at last.

"Let him go, sir? I didn't let him go. He just jerked the rope out of my hands, after dragging me down and over the gravel path. There's no end o' bark off my knuckles and nose."

"Oh, don't say you're hurt, David," said Tom, sitting up astride of the wall.

"Why not, sir? Yes, I shall. I'm hurt horrid. Arms feel 'most jerked out o' the sockets, and skin's off the palms of my hands, leastwise it feels like it. Going to run arter him?"

"Oh no, it's of no use. I gave him an awful thrashing though."

"I wish you'd give him ten times as much, my lad—a wagabone. It was Pete Warboys, wasn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know; I couldn't tell. It was like something in a long sack kicking about there. I hit him nearly every time."

"Well, that's something, sir. Do him more good than a peck out o' our apples. Better for his morials. He ought to have had twice as much."

"But he had enough to keep him from coming again."

"Mebbe, sir; but there's a deal o' wickedness in boys, when they are wicked, and they soon forgets. Here, chuck me the rope, and I'll coil it up."

"Rope! I have no rope."

"Why, you don't mean to say as you've let him cut off with it, sir?"

"I!" cried Tom. "Why you had it."

"Ay, till he snatchered it away, when I was down. Hff! My elbows."

"Then he has run away with it, David."

"Ay, and he'll go and sell it; you see if he don't. Nice nooish bit o' soft rope as it were too."

"Never mind the rope, David," said Tom, jumping down, after listening intently for a few minutes.

"Ah, that's werry well for you, sir; but what am I to say when master arkses me what's become on it?"

"I'll tell him, David. There, it's nearly ten again. I say, you didn't go to sleep to-night."

"No, nor you nayther, sir," said David, with a chuckle. "I'm sorry 'bout that rope, but my word, you did let him have it, sir. Can't be much dust left in his jacket."

David burst into a hoarse fit of laughter, and Tom joined in, laughing till the tears ran down his cheeks.

"Say, Master Tom," cried David. "Pippins!"

There was another burst of laughter, and then David suggested Wellingtons, and followed up with Winter Greenings, each time roaring with laughter.

"He's got apples this time, and no mistake, sir," he said.

"Yes, David; striped ones."

"Ay, sir, he have—red streaks. But think he'll come again to-night?"

"No, David; so let's get back and think of bed."

"Yes, and of my bed here, sir. There's a nice lot o' footprints I know, and I come down first over a young gooseberry-bush, and feels as if here and there I'd got a few thorns in my skin."

Tom listened again, but all was still, and the garden was as quiet ten minutes later, the ripening apples still hanging in their places.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

"And now, Tom," said Uncle Richard one day, "here we have a perfect speculum or concave reflector, but it does not reflect enough. What would you do now?"

"Silver it," said Tom promptly; "make it like a looking-glass."

"Exactly; but how would you do that?"

"Oh, it's easy enough, I believe," said Tom. "You get a sheet of tinfoil, lay it on a table, cover it with quicksilver, and then put the glass on it, and press it with weights till the tinfoil and quicksilver stick to the glass, and then you have a regular mirror."

"You seem to know all about it, Tom," said the Vicar, who had dropped in for a chat, and to hear how the telescope was going on.

"I read it somewhere," said Tom.

"And he can always recollect this sort of thing," said his uncle; "but never could remember anything to do with the law."

Tom looked at him reproachfully.

"Well," continued Uncle Richard, "your process would do for ordinary looking-glasses, Tom, but not for an optical reflector."

"Why, uncle?"

"Because the rays of light would have to pass through the thickness of the glass before they reached the reflecting surface,—the quicksilver,—and in so doing they would be refracted—broken-up and discoloured—so that the reflection would most likely be doubled when it came away; that is, you would see one reflection from the silver at the back, and another from the surface of the glass."

"Therefore," said the Vicar, "we must decline friend Tom's ingenious proposal, and take yours, Brandon, for as usual you have a plan ready."

"Well, yes," said Uncle Richard, smiling; "but it is due to the inventor. We must silver the glass, but on the surface, so as to get a reflection at once. Are you going to stay, Maxted?"

"If I may," was the reply.

"Very well; but for experiment, as it is all new to me, I think we will try first to silver one of these pieces of the broken speculum. Yes; that largest piece."

The conversation took place in the workshop, and the triangular piece of glass having been brought out, it was first thoroughly washed, and rinsed with rain-water, and then further cleaned by rubbing it well with a strong acid, so as to burn off any impurity, and after another rinsing in clear rain-water it was declared by Uncle Richard to be chemically clean.

"A good thing to be chemically as well as morally clean, Tom," said the Vicar, smiling; "but I'm not going to stand here without asking questions if you don't, Master Tom. First then, why must the glass be chemically clean?"

"So that the silver may adhere to it," said Uncle Richard, who was now carefully arranging the freshly-cleaned glass, so that it lay on two pieces of wood in a shallow tray half full of water.

"My turn to question," said Tom merrily.

"Yes, go on," said the Vicar.

"Why is the face of the glass put in water, uncle?"

"To keep it wet and thoroughly clean. Dust or floating spores might settle upon it, and then we should have specks. I want to get a surface perfectly clear; and now, Tom, I want the four bottles I prepared yesterday—fetch them down."

Tom ran up into the laboratory, and brought down four great stoppered bottles, each of which bore a label duly lettered.

These he placed on the broad, table-like bench, and on being requested hurried up-stairs again to fetch a large glass jar-shaped vessel, and a graduated measuring-glass.

"Now," said Uncle Richard, "this process is a chemical experiment, but upon reading it I felt that it was as good as a conjuring trick, and a very grand one too. In fact it is good enough for a magician, for it is a wonderful example of the way in which our chemists have mastered some of the secrets of Nature."

"Bravo, lecturer!" said the Vicar. "Come, Tom, my boy, give him some applause. Clap your hands and stamp your feet;" and the visitor led off by thumping his umbrella upon the floor.

"Oh, very well," said Uncle Richard, laughing; "it shall be a lecture on silver if you like—a very brief one, with a remarkable experiment to follow."

"More applause, Tom," said the Vicar; and it was given laughingly.

"I have here," continued Uncle Richard, "immersed in distilled water—"

"Rain-water, uncle."

"Well, boy, rain-water is distilled by Nature, and then condensed from the vapoury clouds to fall back upon the earth."

"Good," said the Vicar. "I am learning."

"Next," said Uncle Richard, "I have here a bottle marked A, containing so many grains of pure potash, dissolved in so many ounces of water—a strong alkaline solution in fact."

More applause.

"In this next bottle," continued Uncle Richard, "marked B, I have a strong solution of ammonia."

"Another alkali?" said the Vicar.

"Exactly," said Uncle Richard. "In this bottle, marked C, a solution of sugar-candy prepared with pure spirit. Can I have the pleasure of offering you a glass, Vicar?"

"Oh no, thanks," was the reply. "I will not spoil the experiment by satisfying my desire for good things."

"Will any other member of the audience?" said Uncle Richard merrily, looking round at Tom.

"I won't, uncle, thankye," said the lad. "You might have labelled the bottles wrongly."

"Wise boy," said the Vicar; "but, by the way, where's the lump of beaten-out silver to be affixed to the glass?"

"Here it is," said Uncle Richard, laying his hand upon the stopper of the fourth bottle, which held the same quantity of liquid as the others.

"But that's clear water," said Tom.

"Yes, clear distilled water, but not alone. It contains a great deal of silver."

"Whereabouts, lecturer?" said the Vicar.

"In solution," said Uncle Richard gravely. "Here we have one of the wonders of science laboriously worked out by experiment, and when discovered simplicity itself. Tom, suppose I take a piece of bright clear iron and leave it out exposed to all weathers, what happens?"

"Gets rusty," said Tom.

"Exactly; and what is rust?"

"Red," said Tom.

"So is your face, Tom, for giving so absurd an answer."

"Yes, uncle," said Tom frankly. "I don't quite know."

"Oxide of iron," said the Vicar.

"Oh yes," cried Tom eagerly; "I'd forgotten."

"Well," said Uncle Richard, "the oxide of iron is Nature's action upon the iron. Man produces iron by heat from the ore, but unless great care is used to protect it from the action of the atmosphere, it is always going back to a state of nature—oxidises, or goes back into a salt of iron. That by the way; I am not dealing with a salt of iron but with a salt of silver. There it is, so many grains of a salt of silver, which looked like sugar-candy when I wetted it in the water, and, as you see now, here it is a perfectly colourless fluid. There, I have nearly done talking."

"More applause, Tom," said the Vicar merrily.

"Come, that's hardly fair," retorted Uncle Richard. "What would you say to us if we applauded when you said one of your sermons was nearly at an end?"

"But we did not applaud the announcement that you had nearly done," said the Vicar, "but the fact that the experiment was nearly at hand."

"Yes; that's it, uncle. Go on, please," cried Tom.

"Very well then: my experimental magic trick is this," continued Uncle Richard. "I am about not to change a metal into a salt, but a salt— that salt in solution in the water—back into a metal—the invisible into the visible—the colourless water into brilliant, flashing, metallic silver."

"The cannon-ball changed from one hat to the other is nothing to that, Tom Blount," said the Vicar; "but we are the audience; let's be sceptical. I'll say it isn't to be done."

"Oh yes," said Tom seriously. "If uncle says he'll do it, he will."

"Well done, boy," said the Vicar, clapping the lad on the back. "I wish my parishioners would all have as much faith in my words as you have in your uncle's. But silence in the audience. The lecturer will now proceed with the experiment."

"Yes," said Uncle Richard, taking the great glass jar. "Now watch the magical action of Nature, and see what is a great wonder. See, I pour eight ounces—fluid ounces, Tom, not weighed ounces—into the glass measure from this bottle. There: and pour them into this glass jar, which will hold eight times as much. From the next bottle I take an equal quantity and pour it into the jar; and from this bottle I take another equal quantity and pour it into the others. Shake them all up together, and I have so much liquid which looks like water, but, as you may have observed, one of them was the limpid silver solution."

"Yes, I saw that," said Tom.

"I didn't," said the Vicar; "but boys always do see the critical thing in the conjuring trick. But go on, Professor Brandon."

"I must come to a halt here," said Uncle Richard.

"No, no, don't say that, uncle," cried Tom. "You've raised us up to such a pitch of expectation."

"Only for a few moments," said Uncle Richard, "while I prepare my glass. Now then, when I lift out the piece, Tom, you take up the tray, and empty the water into the sink, and bring the empty tray back, place it where it was before, and then come and hold the glass here upon this blotting-paper to drain."

All this was done as requested, and then the lecturer was set free by Tom holding the three-cornered piece of glass, from which nearly all the water had run.

"Now observe," said Uncle Richard, "this is the critical point of the experiment. You see, I take this fourth bottle, and pour the same quantity of this clear liquid into my measure. There—done; and as long as I keep them separate no action takes place, but the moment I pour this clear liquid into that clear liquid, you will see that a change takes place. Look—I ought to say behold!"

The contents of the measure were poured into the glass jar.

"Gets cloudy and thick," cried Tom.

"And thicker and thicker," said the Vicar, as the contents of the jar were well shaken up, and then quickly poured into the tray.

"Now, Tom, the glass," said Uncle Richard sharply; and, taking a couple of little pieces of wood, he placed them in the tray at the sides, and then seizing the piece of broken glass speculum with the tips of the fingers of each hand, he quickly immersed the polished face in the fourfold solution, letting one side go in first, and then the rest of the face, till the glass rested about half an inch deep in the tray, its face being perfectly covered all over.

"Now watch," continued the lecturer; "the magic change has commenced, the metallic silver is forming," and as he spoke he kept on rocking the glass to and fro upon the two bits of wood.

"Why, it has turned all of a dirty black," said Tom, "and as thick as thick," as the rocking went on. "Why are you doing that, uncle?"

"So as to make a regular film come all over, and cause all the solution to be in motion, and give up its silver," was the reply.

"Is it a failure, Brandon?" said the Vicar quietly.

"I hope not," said Uncle Richard; "but of course I am a perfect novice at this sort of thing. It does look though as if I had made a mess instead of a grand experiment."

"Yes, the water has turned pretty inky and thick."

"Hurrah!" shouted Tom enthusiastically; and he caught up a duster and began to wave it in the air.

"What is it, Tom?"

"Hurrah!" yelled the lad. "Silver! Look, look!"

"I do not see any," said the Vicar, taking out his eye-glasses to put on, "only a greasy look on the top of the dirty water."

"No, sir, silver—silver," cried Tom excitedly. "I can see no end of tiny specks floating. Look, uncle. Don't you see?"

"Yes, Tom, you are right," said Uncle Richard, working away at rocking the glass to and fro.

"Oh yes, I can see it now, glittering on the surface," cried the Vicar, as excitedly as the boy. "Wonderful! quite large filmy patches floating. My dear Brandon, it really is very grand."

"Let me rock it now, uncle, to rest you," cried Tom.

"No; only a few minutes more, Tom, and then it may rest and finish."

"How long does it take?" said the Vicar.

"Oh, from ten to twenty minutes," said Uncle Richard; and at the end of a quarter of an hour, which had passed very quickly, so interested were they all, he ceased rocking the glass and left the face immersed in the murky solution, which had resembled very dirty blackish water, with faint traces of silvery film on the surface.

At the end of another five minutes the film was in larger patches, and at the end of another similar lapse of time Uncle Richard declared his experiment so far at an end, and lifted the piece of glass out dripping and dirty, leaving the water fairly clear, but with a thick sediment at the bottom, while the dripping face of the glass, instead of being brilliant polished glass, was seen to be coated over with a drabby-white or greyish film.

"Double up that piece of blotting-paper, and place it in the window, Tom," said Uncle Richard; and while this was being done, the darkened glass was critically examined by the Vicar.

"I'm afraid you won't see many stars in that, friend Brandon," he said.

"It does not look like it," replied Uncle Richard. "But let's get it dry in this current of air, and see what it is like then. Besides, there is something else to follow. That is only the rough surface of metallic silver. It has to be burnished before it is fit for use. That's right, Tom. There!"

The glass had been placed in the sunny window opening, and this being done, Uncle Richard washed his discoloured hands at the sink.

"Now," he said, "dinner must be nearly ready. Stop and have a bit with us, Maxted, and see what the experiment says afterwards. It will be dry enough to polish by then."

"Oh, thank you very much, but no, really I ought to—er—I did not mean to stay."

"Never mind, stop," cried Uncle Richard warmly.

"Yes, do stay, Mr Maxted," cried Tom.

"It's very good of you, but I think I ought to—"

"Stop," said Uncle Richard.

"Really, I should like to see the end of the experiment."

"And hear the end of the lecture directly after dinner," said Uncle Richard. "Tom, run in and tell Mrs Fidler to put another chair to the table. Mr Maxted will stay. Now let's have a walk down the garden till the dinner-bell rings."



CHAPTER THIRTY.

"Now to prove the success of the magical trick," said the Vicar, as they all rose from the table, and walked across to the old mill. "Really, Brandon, honestly I never felt so much interest in chemistry before, and I feel quite disposed to take it up where one left off at college. But oh, dear, how little time one has!"

"True," said Uncle Richard, "the days always seem too short to a busy man. Now, Tom, let's look and see whether we have succeeded or failed."

"Succeeded," cried Tom excitedly, when the heavy fragment of the speculum was lifted out of the hot sunshine perfectly dry, and laid flat upon the bench. "Look, Mr Maxted, you can see that it is silvered all over."

"Yes; a dull, dingy coating of silver," said the Vicar, who had put on his glasses and was now leaning over the glass. "Wonderful indeed. And now, I suppose, you polish this metal face, and make it like a looking-glass?"

"Yes, with leather and rouge," said Uncle Richard, as he too put on his glasses and examined the surface carefully. "But there is something wrong about it."

"Wrong? Oh no, uncle; that stuff has all turned to silver plainly enough," cried Tom.

"True, boy, but my instructions tell me that the result ought to be a bright metallic surface of a golden rosy hue, and that a very little polishing should make it brilliant."

"Perhaps this will be," said the Vicar, "when it is polished."

"I'm afraid not," said Uncle Richard. "There is a hitch somewhere. Either I have made some error in the quantities of my chemicals, or I have left the glass in the solution too long, with the result that the silver has become coated with the dirty-looking precipitation left when the metallic silver is thrown down. However, we are very near success, and we'll polish and see what result we get. Now, Tom, up into the laboratory, and bring down from the second shelf that small bottle of rouge, the packet of cotton-wool, and the roll of fine chamois leather. One moment—the scissors too, and the ball of twine."

Tom ran up-stairs, found the articles required, and was about to descend, when, glancing from the window, he caught sight of Pete Warboys, who had raised himself by getting his toes in some inequality of the wall, and was now resting his folded arms upon the top and his chin upon them, staring hard at the mill.

"Oh, how I should like to be behind him with a stick!" thought Tom; and he laughed to himself as he turned away and went down, to find that his uncle had just uncovered the great speculum they had ground and polished, where it stood upon a stout shelf at the far side of the workshop, and was pointing out its perfections to the Vicar.

"Yes, Brandon," said the latter, "I suppose it is very beautiful in its shaping, but to me it is only a disc of glass. So you are going to silver that?"

"When I am sure of what I am doing," replied Uncle Richard. "I must experimentalise once or twice more first. Here, Tom, set those things down and come here. I don't like this glass to lie upon the shelf. We'll lay a board down here, and turn the speculum face downwards upon the floor."

Tom hurried to his uncle's side, and after the board had been laid upon the floor, and covered with a soft cloth and several sheets of paper, the speculum was carefully lifted, turned over face downwards, covered with another cloth, and left close to the wall.

"No fear of that falling any farther," said Uncle Richard, smiling, as he crossed the workshop deliberately. "Now for the polishing."

He cut off a piece of the soft, delicate leather, about three inches square, made a ball-like pad of cotton-wool, and covered it with the leather, and then tied the ends tightly with some of the twine, making what resembled a soft leather ball with a handle, and patted it in his hand so as to flatten it a little.

"Now then," he said, "this is to be another magic touch. If I succeed, you will see your faces brilliantly reflected in the glass; if I fail—"

"If you fail," said the Vicar, laughing, "I can't apply Lord Lytton's words to you. If it were Tom, I should say, 'In the bright lexicon of youth, there is no such word as fail.'"

"Very well then, though no longer youthful, I'll take the words to myself. Now then for the magic touch that shall change this dull opaque silver to glistening, dazzling light."

He held the leather polisher over the glass for a few moments, and then, as the others looked on, he let it fall smartly upon the silvered face, covered with greyish powder, and began to rub it smartly, when—

Crash!

One cutting, tearing, deafening, sharp, metallic-sounding explosion, that seemed to shake the old mill to its foundations; the windows were blown out; bottles, vessels, and tray were shivered, and the glass flew tinkling in all directions; and then an awful silence, succeeded by a strange singing noise in the ears, through which, as Tom struggled half-stunned and helpless to his feet, he could hear a loud shrieking and yelling for help.

"What has happened? what, has happened?" he muttered, as he clapped his hands to his ears, and tried to look about him; but his eyes had been temporarily blinded by the brilliant flash of light which had blazed through the workshop, and some moments elapsed before he could make out whence came a moaning—"Oh dear me, oh dear me!"

Then he dimly saw the Vicar seated on the floor against the wall, holding his hands to his ears, and rocking himself gently to and fro.

Hardly had Tom realised this when he caught sight of Richard Brandon upon his side in the middle of the place, perfectly motionless; and, with his ears singing horribly, the boy ran to his uncle's side, and tried to raise his head.

And all the while the shrieking and cries for help came from the outside, mingled now with the trampling of feet.

Then, sounding muffled and strange, and as if from a great distance, Tom heard David's voice.

"What is it? where are you hurt?"

"Oh, all over," came in Pete's voice; "I was a-lookin' over the wall and they shot me with a big gun."

"Yah!" cried David, as if still at a great distance, but his words sounded with peculiar distinctness through the metallic ringing. "Shootin'! It was a thunderbolt struck the mill."

"Oh, what is the matter?" came now in Mrs Fidler's voice.

"Thunderbolt, mum; I saw the flash," cried David; and as Tom still held up his uncle's head, and knelt there confused, half-stunned and helpless, Mrs Fidler's voice rose again.

"Quick! help them before the place falls. Master! poor master! Mr Maxted—Master Tom!"

Then came the sound of hurrying feet, and as Tom looked up, to see the ceiling above him come crumbling down, more questioning voices were heard outside, and Pete's voice rose again.

"They shot me with a big gun—they shot me with a big gun."

"Master! master!" shrieked Mrs Fidler. "Oh, there you are! Oh, Master Tom, don't say he's dead."

Tom shook his head feebly; he could not say anything. Then, as he felt himself lifted up, he heard the Vicar say—

"Oh dear me; I don't know—I'm afraid I'm a good deal hurt."

Then quite a cloud gathered about them, and with his ears still singing, Tom felt himself lifted out, water was sprinkled over his face, and he began to see things more clearly; but every word spoken sounded small and distant, while the faces of David, Mrs Fidler, and the people who gathered about them in a scared way looked misty and strange. Then he heard the Vicar's voice.

"Thank you—yes, thank you," he said; "I'm getting better."

"Bones broke, sir?" said David.

"No, I think not; see to poor Mr Brandon. I was thrown against the wall, right across; I can't quite get my breath yet, and I'm as if I was deaf. Ah, Tom, my boy, how are you?"

"I don't know, sir, I don't think I'm hurt; but ask the people not to shout so, it goes through my head." Then, as if he had suddenly recollected something, "Where's uncle?"

"He's coming to, my dear," said Mrs Fidler. "I think he's coming to."

And now Tom saw that they were lying on the newly-made grass-plot outside the mill, and that his uncle was being attended by Mrs Fidler and another woman.

He tried to get to him, but the slightest effort made his head swim, and he was fain to lie still and listen, while David went on talking excitedly.

"I was down the garden digging up the first crop o' taters, when I see a flash o' lightning, and then came a clap o' thunder as sharp as the crack of a whip. It made my ears sing. Then as I run to see, I hears Pete Warboys yelling out—'They shot me with a big gun—they shot me with a big gun.'"

"Hadn't some one better fetch the doctor?" said a fresh voice.

"He's gone out," cried another.

"Shot me with a big gun," yelled Pete again.

"Thank you, yes, thank you," came now in a voice which made Tom Blount's heart leap. "I don't think I am much hurt. Where is my boy Tom?"

"I'm all right, uncle," cried the boy eagerly, though he felt very far from being so; and he heard a few murmured words of thankfulness.

"Where is Mr Maxted?"

"I am here," said the Vicar, "not much hurt. But tell me, how are your eyes?"

"Rather dim and misty. But what was it?" said Uncle Richard, rather feebly; "an explosion?"

"Shot me with a big gun—shot me with a big gun."

"Will some one put a tater in that boy's ugly mouth," cried David indignantly. "I tell yer all it was thunder and lightning. I saw one and heard t'other, both sharp together."

"Yes, yes, yes. Didn't I always tell you so?" cried a shrill voice; and Tom looked round, to dimly make out Mother Warboys bending over her grandson, who was now sitting on the grass close under the wall, where he had been placed. "I always said it. His punishment's come at last for all his wicked tricks and evil dealings."

"And one in hers too," cried David. "A wicked old sinner! Hold your tongue, will you!"

"Nay, nay, I'll hold no tongue," cried Mother Warboys. "He's a wicked man-witch, and allays doing evil and making charms."

"Shot me with a big gun, granny."

"Hold thy tongue, boy. It's come to him at last—it's come to him at last. I always telled ye that he was a bad, wicked one. Now he's punished."

"Oh dear me! I cannot put up with this," muttered the Vicar. "David, my good fellow, give me your hand. Thank you—that's better. I think I can stand now. Oh, yes. That's right; but I've lost my glasses."

"Here they are, sir," said a voice, "but they're all crushed to bits."

"Then I must do without them, I suppose."

"An old wicked one, who buys up mills and starves the poor, so that he may go on in his evil ways. I told you all so, but it's come to him at last."

"Oh dear me!" ejaculated the Vicar. "Keep my arm, David. Here, you sir, get up."

"Shot me with a gun—shot me with a gun," yelled Pete, who had got hold of one form of complaint, and kept to it.

"Silence, sir! It's all nonsense; no one fired a gun."

"Yes; shot me, and knocked me off the wall."

"Is he hurt?" asked the Vicar, as Uncle Richard now sat up.

"Don't think so, sir," said one of the village people. "We can't find nothing the matter with him."

"I told you so—I told you all so," continued Mother Warboys, waving her stick.

"And I tell you so," cried the Vicar angrily. "Go along home, you wicked old she Shimei. How dare you come cursing here when your poor neighbours are in trouble!"

"I—I—I don't care—I will say it," cried Mother Warboys.

"You dare to say another word, and you shall have no dole next Sunday," cried the Vicar angrily.

"I—I don't care; I say it's come home to him at last. I always said it would."

"Yes, you wicked old creature; and in spite of your vanity you are not a prophetess. Take that old woman home," cried the Vicar fiercely; but no one stirred.

"What, are you all afraid of her?"

"She'll get cursing and ill-wishing us if we do, sir," said one of the men present.

"I'll take her home, sir," cried David. "Don't s'pose she'll hurt me much if she do. Come along, old lady, and you, Pete, take hold of her other arm."

Pete obeyed, and seemed to forget his injuries, taking Mother Warboys' other arm, and helping her out of the yard, she saying no more, but shaking her head, and muttering that she "always knowed how it would be."

By this time Uncle Richard was sufficiently recovered to walk about; and, beckoning Tom to him, he took his arm and went into the workshop, where the silvered piece of speculum lay shattered; and in addition to the windows being broken, the bench was split from end to end, and a table and stools knocked over.

"Look at the speculum, Tom. Is it hurt?"

Tom's ears were still ringing as he crossed to where they had laid the disc of glass face downwards; and on uncovering it, he found it uninjured, and said so, making his uncle draw a deep breath as if much relieved.

"Now lock up the place, Tom," he said, "and let's go indoors. I am too much shaken to say much, so ask Mr Maxted to request the people to go away now, and then you can fasten the gate."

"Think she'll tumble down, sir?" said a voice at the door; and they turned to find David back panting and breathless. "Took her home, sir. She kep' on chuntering all the way, but parson frightened her about the dole, and she never said a cross word. But think the mill 'll come down?"

"Oh no, David," said Uncle Richard quietly; "there is no fear. Is that boy much hurt?"

"Him, sir? Tchah! There's nothing the matter with him. The shock knocked him off the wall, and he lay howling, expecting some one to give him a shilling to put him right. He'd forgotten all about it before he got home, and began to quarrel with his granny."

"Help to lock up," said Uncle Richard; and, leaving Tom free to speak to the people, and ask them to disperse, he laid his hand on David's arm.

Ten minutes later the people were all out of the yard, and hanging about in the lane discussing the thunderbolt, as they called it, that had fallen, some declaring that the worst always came out of a clear sky, while others declared that they'd "never seed thunder and lightning without clouds."

On the whole, they were rather disappointed that more mischief had not been done. The burning of the mill, for instance, or its crumbling down, would have made the affair more exciting, whereas there were some broken windows to look at, and that was all.

Meanwhile the scientific people had adjourned to the cottage, where warm water and clothes-brushes did a good deal to restore them to their former state, while a cup of tea hurriedly prepared by Mrs Fidler did something toward soothing their shattered nerves.

"But really, sir, I think you ought to let me send over to Buildston for Doctor Ranson."

"Not for me, Mrs Fidler," said Uncle Richard. "I've been a good deal shaken, and my ears are full of a sharp singing sound, but I'm rapidly coming round. Send for him to see Mr Maxted."

"Oh dear me, no. I'm very much better," said the Vicar. "I was very much frightened, and I have a lump on the back of my head, but that is all. You had better send for him, I think, to see Master Tom here."

"I don't want any doctor," exclaimed Tom. "Mrs Fidler could put me right."

"Yes, my dear," cried the housekeeper; "but you never will let me."

"Well, who's going to take prune tea or brimstone and treacle because he has been knocked down?"

"There, Mrs Fidler, you hear," said Uncle Richard; "we have had a narrow escape, but I don't think any of us are much the worse. We only want rest. Take the couch, Maxted, and lie down."

"Well—er—really," said the Vicar; "if you will not think it selfish of me, I believe it would do my head good if I lay down for an hour. I am a good deal shaken."

Mrs Fidler sighed and left the room as the Vicar took the couch, Uncle Richard one easy-chair, and Tom the other, to lie back and listen to the murmur of voices out in the lane, where the village people were still discussing the startling affair. Every now and then some excited personage raised his voice, and a word or two floated through the window about "lightning," and "heared it," and "mussy no one was killed."

Uncle Richard was the first to break the silence by saying dryly—

"I'm afraid Mrs Fidler does not believe in the thunder and lightning theory."

"No?" said the Vicar, turning his head.

"No," said Uncle Richard, smiling, but wincing at the same time; "she has had experience of me before in my dabblings in other things. What do you say was the cause of the trouble, Tom?"

"Well, I should say, uncle, that the silver was too strong for the glass, and made it split all to pieces."

"Not a bad theory," said Uncle Richard. "What do you say, Maxted?"

"Well," said the Vicar, "do you know, I'm puzzled. Of course it was not an electric shock, and my knowledge of chemistry is so very shallow; but really and truly, I feel convinced, that you must have got hold of wrong chemicals, and formed some new and dangerous explosive compound."

"Quite right, only it was not new," said Uncle Richard. "As soon as I could collect my shattered thinking powers, I began to consider about what I had done, and I think I see correctly now. The fact is, I forgot one very important part of the instructions I have for silvering mirrors."

"Indeed!" said the Vicar, in an inquiring tone, while Tom pricked up his singing ears.

"Yes," said Uncle Richard. "You remember how the silvery surface was covered with a greyish powder?"

"Yes, thickly," said Tom.

"That had no business there, and it would not have been if I had been more careful to remember everything. When I took the speculum glass out of the silvering bath, I ought to have deluged it with pure water till all that greyish powder was washed away, then it would have been fairly bright."

"Yes, uncle; but what has that to do with the explosion?"

"Everything, my boy. If there had been no powder there we should have had no explosion."

"But it wasn't gunpowder, uncle," cried Tom, "it couldn't be. I know what gunpowder's made of—nitre, brimstone, and charcoal; and besides, we had no light."

"No, Tom, but it was a mixture far stronger than gunpowder, and one which will explode with a very slight friction."

"I know," cried the Vicar eagerly, "fulminate of silver."

"Quite right," said Uncle Richard; "and I feel quite ashamed of my ignorance. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing; and I ought to have known that in this process I was preparing so dangerous a compound."

"I know," cried Tom now; "fulminate of silver is what they put in percussion caps, isn't it, uncle?"

"No; that is a very similar compound, but it is fulminate of mercury.— Well, Maxted, what am I to say to you for trying to kill you?"

"I think you had better say nothing," said the Vicar quietly. "It seems to me that the less we talk about it the better, and content ourselves with being thankful for our escape."

"It's lucky, uncle, that it missed the big speculum, and a lot more stuff being used."

"Fortunate indeed, Tom. We must be more careful next time."

"But surely you will not try so dangerous an experiment again?" said the Vicar anxiously.

"Certainly I shall," said Uncle Richard. "The experiment is not in the least dangerous if properly carried out. The accident was from my ignorance. I know better now."

"You've paid very dearly for your experience," said the Vicar, smiling. "It's rather hard upon your friends, though, to try such risky experiments in their presence."

"Next time all will go well. Will you come and see it?"

"Really, my dear Brandon, I respect you very much, as my principal parishioner, and a man after my own heart, but I'm afraid I shall be too busy to come next time. I'll wait till the big telescope is ready for use, when I shall want to peep through; but even then I shall approach it with fear and trembling. It will look like a great gun, and I shall always feel afraid of its going off."

"And you, Tom," said his uncle, "what do you say?"

"What about, uncle?"

"Shall you be afraid to come and help silver another time?"

"Oh no, uncle, I think not," replied the boy. "But I say, will my ears leave off?"

"What, listening?"

"No, uncle; it's just as if I'd got a little tiny muffin-man ringing his bell in each ear as hard as he can go."

"Try a night's rest," said Uncle Richard. "Yes, I'm very sorry we had such a mishap."

"Never mind," said the Vicar; "it will give our little glazier a job. And now I feel rested and better, so good-evening, I'm going home."



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

Tom gave proof of his readiness a few days later, when the broken windows had been replaced, fresh solutions made, and the village had again calmed down to its regular natural state of repose; for, upon his uncle proposing that they should proceed at once to silver the big speculum, he eagerly went off to the workshop to get all ready for his uncle's coming.

Short as the distance was though, he did not get away without encountering Pete, who hurried up to the wall to shout over at him—

"I know. Yer did shoot at me, but I shan't forget it, so look out."

Then hearing some one coming from the cottage, he ducked down like a wild animal seeking concealment, and hurried away.

Then the whole process was gone through to the smallest minutiae, and only an hour after the silvered face of the mirror was deluged with rain-water, and uncle and nephew gazed in triumph at their work, for there was no sign of greyish-drab powder about the mirror, and it was so bright that polishing seemed unnecessary.

The next day it was polished, till by a side light it looked black, while in face it was a brilliant looking-glass ready to reflect the faintest stars; and after being put away securely, the great tube was set about, and in due time this was lightly and strongly made of long laths hooped together. A shallow tray was contrived deep enough to hold the speculum, and fitted with screws, so that it could be secured to one end. Next followed the fitting of a properly-constructed eye-piece from a London optician, contrived so that it looked at right angles into a small reflector, which also had to be carefully fixed in the axis of the great speculum.



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

"What's the matter, Tom?" said Uncle Richard one day, as they were busy at work over the telescope, and Tom was scratching his head.

"There's nothing the matter, uncle, only I'm a bit puzzled."

"What about?"

"Over this great glass. It's going to be so different to the old one."

"Of course; that is a refractor, and this is going to be a reflector."

"Yes, uncle, but it seems so queer. The refractor is a tube made so that you can look through it, but the reflector will be, if you are right, so that you can't look through it, because instead of being at the end, the hole will be in the side. Is that correct?"

"Quite right, and you are quite wrong, Tom, for you do not understand the first simple truth in connection with a telescope."

"I suppose not, uncle," replied the lad, with a sigh. "I am very stupid."

"No, you are not, sir, only about as ignorant as most people are about glasses. I have explained the matter to you, but you have not taken it in."

"I suppose not, uncle," said Tom, wrinkling his brow.

"Then understand it now, once for all. It is very simple if you will try and grasp it. Now look here: what do you do with an ordinary telescope or opera-glass, single or double? Hold it up to your eyes, do you not?"

"Yes, uncle."

"And then?"

"Look through it at something distant, and it seems to draw it near."

"You do what?"

"Look through it, uncle."

"Nothing of the kind, sir, you do not."

Tom looked puzzled. What did his uncle mean? He had, he thought, looked through a pair of field-glasses scores of times at home in the old days.

"I make you stare, my lad, but I am glad to see it, for it shows me how right I am, and that you do think as everybody else does who has not studied optics, that you look through a glass at an object."

Tom stared harder, and once more the old idea came to him, and he asked himself whether there were times when his uncle did not quite understand what he was saying.

"But you do, uncle," he cried at last. Then he qualified this declaration by saying, "Don't you?"

"No, my boy, once for all you do not; and if you take up any telescope, and remove the eye-piece before looking along the tube, you will see that your eyes will not penetrate the glass at the end. Then if you try the eye-piece alone, you will find that you cannot even look through that. How much less then will you be able to look through both at once."

"But it seems so strange, uncle. You have a big magnifying-glass in a tube, and don't look through it? Then what do you do?"

"Certainly not look through it, my boy."

"But the bigger the glasses are the more they magnify—the moon, say."

"Yes, Tom; and the more light they gather."

"Well, then, why do you say, uncle, that you don't look through the glass?"

"Because it is a fact that I want you to understand," said Uncle Richard, smiling. "The big glass, or in our case the reflecting speculum, forms a tiny image of the object at which it is pointed, close to where we look in, within an inch or so of our eye."

"A tiny image, uncle?"

"Well, picture, then."

"But you say tiny! It looks big enough when we put our eye to the little round hole."

"To be sure it does. But what do you look through?"

"The eye-piece."

"Well, what is the eye-piece?"

"A little glass or two—lenses."

"These glasses or lenses form a microscope, Tom; and through them you look at the tiny image formed in the focus of the great lens or the speculum, whichever you use."

"But I thought microscopes were only used to magnify things invisible to the eye."

"Well, Jupiter's moons, Saturn's ring, and the markings on Mars are all invisible to the naked eye. So are the craters in the moon; so we use the big speculum to gather the light, and then look at the spot where all the rays of light come to their narrowest point, with an eye-piece which really is a microscope."

"But I don't understand now," said Tom uneasily. "I wish I was not so—"

"If you say stupid again, Tom, I shall quarrel with you," said Uncle Richard sternly. "I never think any boy is stupid who tries to master a subject. One boy's brain may be slower at acquiring knowledge than another, but that does not prove him to be stupid. What is it you don't follow?"

"About our telescope. If the light from the big speculum is all reflected nearly to a point, ought we not to look down at it?"

"No; because then our heads would be in the way, and would cast a shadow upon it. To avoid that, I put the little mirror in the middle, near the top, just at the right slant, so that the rays are turned off at right angles into the eye-piece, and so we are able to look without interrupting the light."

"Oh, I see now," said Tom thoughtfully. "It's very clear."

"Yes," said Uncle Richard. "Sir Isaac Newton, who contrived that way, was a clever man. Now then, let's get on with our work."

"I suppose then now we're ready?" said Tom.

"Far from it," replied his uncle; "are you going to hold up a twelve-foot tube to your eye, and direct it to a star? The next thing is of course to mount it upon trunnions, and arrange that it shall turn upon an axis, so that we can sweep in any direction."

The longest tasks come to an end. By the help of the village carpenter, a strong rough stand was connected with the beam formerly used to bear the sails of the mill, the trunnions were fitted to a strong iron ring by the smith, and one evening the great telescope was hung in its place, and in spite of its weight, moved at the slightest touch, its centre of gravity having been so carefully calculated that it swung up and down and revolved with the greatest ease.

"There, Tom," said Uncle Richard; "now I think we can sweep the heavens in every direction, and when once we have tried, the mirrors, so as to set them and the eye-piece exact, we can get to work."

Tom looked at his uncle in dismay.

"Why, you don't mean to say, uncle, that there is more to do after working at it like this?"

"Yes, a great deal. We have to get the glasses to work with one another to the most perfect correctness. That task may take us for days."

It did, and though Tom finished off every evening worn-out and discouraged, he recommenced in the morning fresh and eager as ever, helping to alter the position of the big speculum, then of the small plane mirror. Then the eye-piece had to be unscrewed and replaced again and again, till at last Uncle Richard declared that he could do no more.

"Then now we may begin?" cried Tom.

"We might," said his uncle, "for the moon will be just right to-night in the first quarter; but judging from appearances, we shall have a cloudy wet evening."

And so it proved, the moon not even showing where she was in hiding behind the clouds.

"I do call it too bad," cried Tom, "now, too, that we are quite ready."

"Patience, lad, patience. A star-gazer must have plenty of that. Do you know that a great astronomer once said that there were only about a hundred really good hours for observation in every year."

"What?" cried Tom. "He meant in a night. I mean a week. No, I don't: how absurd! In a month."

"No, Tom," said his uncle quietly, "in a year. Of course there would be plenty more fair hours, but for really good ones no doubt his calculation was pretty correct. So you will have to wait."

The Vicar called again one day, and hearing from Mrs Fidler that her master was over at the observatory, he came to the yard gate and thumped with his stick.

"What's that?" said Uncle Richard, who was down upon his knees carefully adjusting a lens.

"Tramp, I should think," said Tom, who was steadying the great tube of the telescope.

"Then he must tramp," said Uncle Richard. "I can't be interrupted now. What numbers of these people do come here!"

"Mrs Fidler says it's because you give so much to them, uncle, and they tell one another."

"Mrs Fidler's an old impostor," said Uncle Richard—"there, I think that is exactly in the axis—she gives more away to them than I do."

"Bread-and-cheese, uncle; but she says you always give money."

"Well, boy, it isn't Mrs Fidler's money. That must be exact."

Bang, hang, hang at the gate, and then—

"Anybody at home?" came faintly.

"Why, it's Mr Maxted, uncle. May I go and speak to him?"

"Yes, you can let go now. Tell him to come up."

Tom left the telescope and went to the shutter, which he threw open, and stepped out into the little gallery.

"Good-morning. Your uncle there?"

"Yes, sir. He says you are to come up."

"Come up?" said the Vicar, laughing. "I don't know. It was bad enough on the ground-floor. I don't want to be shot out of the top. Is it safe?"

"There's nothing to mind now, sir," cried Tom. "The door is open."

"Well, I think I'll risk it this time," said the Vicar, entering the yard, while Tom stepped back into the observatory.

"What, is he pretending to be frightened?" said Uncle Richard, with a grim smile.

"Yes, uncle; he wanted to know if it was safe."

By this time the Vicar's steps were heard upon the lower stairs, and Tom lifted the trap-door, holding it open for their visitor, who, after the usual greetings, sat down to admire the telescope.

"Hah! that begins to look business-like," he said. "We shall be soon having a look I suppose. Finished?"

"Very nearly," said Uncle Richard. "It has been a long job."

"I wanted your advice about one of my difficulties," said the Vicar, puckering up his face.

"Shall I go down and see to the glass for the new frames, uncle?"

"Oh, no, no, no," cried the Vicar. "I've nothing to say that you need not hear. I've just come from old Mother Warboys' cottage."

"And how is the old witch?"

"Ah, poor, prejudiced old soul, much the same as ever. I'm afraid she is beyond alteration, but her grandson was there."

"Humph! And he's beyond mending too," said Uncle Richard gravely.

"Ah, there's the rub," said the Vicar, crossing his legs, and clasping his hands about the upper knee. "They are both of human flesh, but one is young and green, the other old and dry. I can be satisfied that I am helpless over the old woman, but I'm very uneasy about that boy."

"Halloo! He was not seriously hurt over the explosion?"

"Not a bit."

"But he thinks it was my doing to spite him, uncle, and he says he will serve me out."

"A young dog!" cried the Vicar. "I'll talk to him again."

"Labour in vain," said Uncle Richard. "As you know, I tried over and over again to make something of him, but he would not stay. He hates work. Wild as one of the rabbits he poaches."

"But we tame rabbits, Brandon, and I don't like seeing that boy gradually go from bad to worse."

"It's the gipsy blood in him, I'm afraid," said Uncle Richard.

"Yes, and I don't know what to do with him."

"A good washing wouldn't be amiss."

"No," sighed the Vicar; "but he hates soap and water as much as he does work. What am I to do? The boy is on my conscience. He makes me feel as if all my teaching is vain, and I see him gradually developing into a man who, if he does what the boy has done, must certainly pass half his time in prison."

"Yes, it is a problem," said Uncle Richard. "Boys are problems. Troublesome young cubs, aren't they, Tom?"

"Horrible, uncle," said Tom dryly.

"But to begin with: a boy is a boy," said the Vicar firmly, "and he has naturally the seeds of good and evil in him."

"Pete Warboys had all the good left out of him," said Uncle Richard.

"No, I deny that," said the Vicar decisively.

"Well, I've seen him about for some time now, and I've never seen any of the good, Maxted."

"Ah, but I have," said the Vicar, while Tom busied himself doing nothing to the telescope, and began to take a good deal of interest in the discussion about his enemy. "You will grant, I suppose, that Mother Warboys is about as unamiable, cantankerous an old woman as ever breathed?"

"Most willingly," said Uncle Richard, smiling. "She leads that boy quite a dog's life. I've seen her thump him quite savagely with her stick."

"And he deserved it," said Uncle Richard.

"No doubt; but instead of showing resentment, the boy is devoted to her; and I know for a fact he is always bringing her rabbits and hares to cook for herself."

"Poached."

"Yes, I'm afraid so; but I'm firmly convinced that he would fight to the death for the poor old creature."

"Nature," said Uncle Richard; "she is his grandmother."

"Then there is some good in him," cried the Vicar; "and what I want is to make it grow. The only question is, how it is to be done."

"Don't you think I have got problems enough over my telescope, without your setting me fresh ones? Get some recruiting serjeant to carry him off for raw material to turn into a soldier."

"Hopeless," said the Vicar. "Too loose and shambling. As it is, metaphorically, every one throws stones at the lad; no one ever gives him a kind word."

"No, but who can? I'm afraid you must give him up, Maxted, as a hopeless case."

"I will not," said the Vicar firmly. "It's my duty to try and make a decent member of society of the lad if I can, and I'm sorry you cannot give me a hint."

"So am I," said Uncle Richard seriously, "but I look upon him as hopeless. I tried again and again, till I felt that the only thing was to chain him up, and beat and starve him into submission, and it seemed to me that it would be better to let him run wild than attempt to do that."

"Yes; I agree with you," said the Vicar. "Tom. Come, Tom, you're a boy. Boys understand one another better than men understand them. Can't you help me?"

"I wish I could, sir," said Tom, shaking his head, "but I'm afraid I can't."

Then the conversation turned to astronomical matters, and soon after the Vicar left.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

That conversation took root in Tom's mind. He found himself thinking a good deal about Pete Warboys and his devotion to his hideous old grandmother; but it was hard work to believe that he had any of the good in him that the Vicar talked about.

"Wonder whether he really has," Tom said to himself. "He might have."

The idea began to grow, and it spread.

"What would they say if I tried to alter him, and got him to turn into a decent chap?"

He laughed at his own conceit directly after.

"He'd laugh at me too," thought Tom; and then something else took his attention. But the idea was there, and was always cropping up. He found himself talking to David about the lad one day when he was down the garden, and David left off digging potatoes, took a big kidney off one of the prongs of the potato fork, upon which it was impaled, split it in two, and began thoughtfully to polish the tool with the piece he retained.

"Do I think as you might make a decent chap out of Pete Warboys, Master Tom, by being kind to him?"

"Yes."

"Do I think as you could make a silk puss out of a sow's ear, Master Tom; and then cut this here yellow bit o' tater into sovereigns and put in it? No, sir, I don't. Pete's a bad 'un, and you can't make a good 'un out of him."

"Not if he was properly taught?"

"Tchah! you couldn't teach a thing like him. It'd all run through him like water through a sieve."

"But he has never been taught better."

"More was I, sir, but I don't go poaching, and stealing apples and eggs, and ducks and chickens. Why, he makes that wicked old woman his grandam fat with the things he steals and takes to her."

"Well, that shows there's some good in him," cried Tom, basing himself upon the Vicar's speech.

"Master Tom," cried David, digging his fork down into the earth as if to impale fierce, evil thoughts with its tines, "I'm surperrised at you. Good! What, to go stealing an' portching to feed up a wicked old woman, who spends all her time trying to curse. That's a shocking sentiment, sir, and one that arn't becoming. It arn't good, and there arn't no good in Pete Warboys, and never will be. He's a bad stock, and if you was to take him and plant him in good soil, and then work him with a scion took off a good tree, and put on some graftin' wax to keep out all the wet and cold, do you think he'd ever come to be a decent fruit tree? Because if you do, you're wrong. He never could, and never would, come to anything better than a bad old cankering crab sort o' thing. No, my lad, it would just be waste of time, and nothing else."

Still Tom did not feel at all convinced, but said no more.

David did though. It was pleasant to the back standing there, with one foot resting upon the great five-pronged fork; and as he stood with his fingers on the handle, he kept his left arm across his loins, and gave Tom a cunning leer.

"It's all right, sir; taters won't hurt. Tatering's a thing you ought to take your time over. The longer they lie out here without the sun on them, the harder the skins will be, and the better they'll keep."

Tom stopped talking to David for some time longer, but his mind was not bent upon the vegetable kingdom as represented by the tuber commonly known as a "tater," but upon that portion of the animal kingdom familiar to him as Pete Warboys.

Now it so happened that a couple of days later, Uncle Richard was going out on business in the nearest town, leaving Tom to amuse himself as he pleased.

"What shall I do, uncle?" said Tom. "Is there anything to grind?"

"No; you are not out enough in the open air. Go and get blackberries, or mushrooms, or something to take you for a long walk. I shall be home to tea."

Tom had been indoors so much, that at first he felt unwilling to go; but that feeling soon wore off, and he started for a long jaunt out through the firs, to the wild common-lands, where Nature revelled undisturbed, and he knew that between blackberries and mushrooms he was pretty sure of getting something to bring back in the basket Mrs Fidler supplied.

And so it proved. As soon as he was well through the fir-wood, where the closely-growing reddish fir-trunks brought to mind Pete's hiding-place, and consequently Pete himself, he found the broken ground rich with brambles clustering over the furze-bushes, and hanging down in the sandy hollows—hot, sunny spots, where the black fruit, rarely gathered, hung in bunches, so that the basket soon began to grow heavy, and a division had to be made with bracken fronds to keep them from being mixed up with the mushrooms he gathered from time to time—not big, flat, dark, brown-gilled fungi, such as grow in moist spots and rich old pastures, but delicate, plump little buttons, which he found here and there dotted about the soft velvety bits of sheep-cropped pasture hidden among the clumps of furze.

Then there were other objects of interest: rabbits darted here and there, skurrying into their sandy holes; he caught sight of a weasel, which peered at him for a moment, and then glided away like a short fur-clothed viper. Further on he came upon an olive-green, regularly-marked snake, which seemed in no hurry to escape; another slightly-formed reptile, nearly equal in thickness all along, and looking as if made of oxidised silver, being far more active in its movements to gain sanctuary under a furze bush. Soon after, while reaching out his hand to get at a cluster of blackberries, he saw beneath him in an open sunny patch, where all was yellow sand, a curled-up grey serpent, not three feet from his extended hand. It was thick and short, the tail being joined on to the body without the graduation seen in the others, while the creature's neck looked thin and small behind the flat, spade-shaped head.

"Asleep or awake?" Tom asked himself, as the reptile lay perfectly motionless, with its curiously-marked eyes seeming dull, and as if formed of the same material as the scales.

The lad drew his hand back, for there was something repellent about the little object, and he knew at once that this was a dangerous little viper.

His first instinct was to strike at it, but he had no stick; and he stood perfectly still examining it, and comparing its shape and markings with what he could recall of his readings respecting the adder.

There was no doubt about it. The little reptile was an adder, sunning itself in its warm home; and that it was not asleep Tom soon saw, for the curious tongue was rapidly protruded several times, flickering, as it were, outside the horny mouth, which seemed to be provided with an opening in front expressly for the tongue to pass through, while the jaws remained closed.

"Wish I'd a stick," thought the boy, as the viper now slowly raised its head; a couple of coils were in motion, and for the moment it seemed about to glide away, but the head sank again, and once more the little creature lay perfectly still.

"They're dangerous things, and the bite is very painful," thought Tom; but he did not stir to get a stick to kill the reptile, for he was interested in its peculiar form, and the dark, velvety markings along its body, which glistened in the sun.

And there he stood, peering over into the little opening, in profound unconsciousness that he was being silently stalked, till, just as he had made up his mind to go to the nearest fir-tree and cut a stick, in the hope of finding the adder still there on his return, there was a sharp snuffling sound.

Tom started round, to find Pete's ill-looking dog close at hand, but ready to spring away over the bushes as if expecting a blow.

Tom's next glance showed him the disturbed viper, with its head raised, eyes glittering as if filled with fire, and its body all in motion. Then it was gone; but another pair of eyes were gazing into his, for Pete Warboys slowly raised himself from where he had crawled to the other side of the furze clump.



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

"Hulloo!" said Pete, with a sneering grin; "got you then, have I? Who gave you leave to come and pick them?"

"Hulloo, Pete!" said Tom quietly, ignoring the question, for the recollection of his thoughts during the past few days came up strongly, and all that the Vicar, his uncle, and David had said.

"Who are you a hulloo Peteing?" snarled the fellow. "Yer ain't got no guns now to go shooting at people."

"What nonsense!" said Tom; "that wasn't a gun—it was an explosion."

"Yer needn't tell me; I know," said Pete, edging round slowly to Tom's side of the bush.

"I don't believe you were half so much hurt as I was," continued Tom.

"Serve yer right. Yer'd no business to shoot at a fellow."

"I didn't," cried Tom. "Don't I tell you it wasn't a gun?"

"Oh, yer can't cheat me. Here! hi! Kerm here, will yer, or I'll scruntch yer!" he roared to his dog. "Leave that 'ere rarebut alone. Want him to go sneaking an' telling the perlice, and purtendin' it was me."

The dog gave up chasing an unfortunate rabbit through the bushes, and came trotting up, with hanging head and tail, to his master's side, where he crouched down panting and flinching as Pete raised his hand and made believe to strike.

"I'll half smash yer if yer don't mind," he snarled.

Then, turning to Tom—

"What yer got there—blackb'rys and mash-eroons?"

"Yes; there are plenty about," replied Tom.

"Know that better than you do."

"I dare say you do," said Tom good-humouredly, as he watched the unpleasant looks directed at him, the fellow's whole aspect being such as we read was assumed by the wolf who sought an excuse for eating the lamb.

All the same, though, Tom's aspect partook more of the good-humoured bulldog than that of the lamb; though Pete kept to his character well, and more and more showed that he was working himself up for a quarrel.

"Yah!" he exclaimed suddenly, after edging himself up pretty closely, and with his hands still in his pockets, thrusting out his lower jaw, and leaning forward stared over his raised shoulder at Tom. "Yah! I feel as if I could half smash yer!"

"Do you?" said Tom quietly.

"Yes, I do. Don't you get a-mocking me. Ain't yer feared?"

"No," said Tom quietly, "not a bit. Have sixpence?"

Pete stared, and leaned over out of the perpendicular, so as to get his face closer to Tom's. "Whort say?"

"Will you have sixpence?" said Tom, thrusting his right hand into his pocket, and withdrawing the above coin.

"Yerse; 'course I will," cried Pete, snatching the piece, spitting on it, and thrusting it into his pocket. "Thought your sort allus telled the truth."

"Well, so we do," said Tom, smiling.

"None o' yer lies now, 'cause it won't do with me," said the fellow menacingly. "Yer said yer warn't afeard, and yer are. All in a funk, that's what yer are: so now then."

"No, I'm not," said Tom, in the coolest way possible, for he had made up his mind to try and carry out the Vicar's plan.

"I tell yer yer are. What yer got here? Yer wouldn't ha' give me sixpence to let yer alone if yer hadn't been afeard. What yer got here, I say?"

"You can see," said Tom, without showing the slightest resentment at the handle of his basket being seized, even though Pete, in perfect assurance that he was frightening his enemy into fits, grew more and more aggressive.

"Yes, I can see," cried Pete. "I've got eyes in my head, same as you chaps as come from London, and think yerselves so precious sharp. Yer've no right to come down and pick what's meant for poor people. Give 'em here."

He wrenched the basket from Tom's arm, and scattered its contents away amongst the furze-bushes, sending the basket after them.

"There, that's what you'll get if yer comes picking and stealing here. How d'yer like that, young blunt 'un?"

"Not at all," said Tom, who looked very white, and felt a peculiar tingling about the corners of his lips and in his temples.

"Course yer don't; but yer've got to like it, and so I tell yer. Smell that."

He placed his fist within an inch of Tom's nose, and the boy could not help smelling it, for it was strong of pulling onions, or peeling them with his nails.

"Now, then, how much money have yer got with yer?"

"Only another sixpence," said Tom a little huskily.

"Hand it over, then, and look sharp about it, 'fore it's the worse for yer."

He caught hold of Tom's jacket as he spoke, and gave it a shake, making his dog sidle up and growl, "Hear that? You give me more of yer sarce, and I'll set the dorg at you, and see how yer like that. Now, then, where's that sixpence?"

"I'll give it to you if you'll leave go," said Tom quietly. "Look here, Pete, I don't want to quarrel with you."

"That yer don't. I should like to see you. Give it here."

"I want to be friends with you, and try to do something for you."

"Yes, I knows you do. You've got to bring me a shillin' every week, or else I'll give it yer, so as you'd wish yer'd never been born. I'll larn yer. Give me that sixpence."

"Leave go first."

"Give's that sixpence, d'yer hear?" cried Pete, clapping his other hand on Tom, and shaking him.

"Don't do that," cried Tom; "it makes me feel queer."

Pete yelled with laughter.

"Course it does; but that arn't nothing. Hand over that there sixpence, or—"

He gave a savage shake, which made Tom turn deadly pale, and shake himself free.

"What!" roared Pete. "Oh, yer would, would yer? Lay hold on him. Ciss! have him there!"

The dog, which had been snuffling and growling about, needed no further urging, but sprang at Tom, who received his charge with a tremendous kick, which caught the cur under the jaw, knocking it over, and sending it in amongst the furze bushes, where it lay howling and yelping dismally, till it gave a peculiar sharp cry, sprang out with something sticking to its nose, and then dashed off with its tail between its legs as hard as it could go, leaving a little viper wriggling back over the short grass to get back to the shelter of the furze.

Pete Warboys looked perfectly astounded at Tom's act, and stood staring for a few moments. Then, attributing it to horror and desperate fear, he ran at his enemy again, and got a firm grip of his collar, to begin see-sawing him to and fro.

"That's it, is it?" he cried; "yer'd kick my dorg, would yer? Just you give me that other sixpence, or I'll break every bone in yer skin 'fore yer know where you are."

"Let go!" said Tom huskily; and he struggled to get free.

"Oh no, yer don't. Yer arn't going to get away till yer've paid me that there sixpence."

Tom's fit of philanthropy had nearly all evaporated, like so much mist before the intense heat which Pete had set burning, and made all the blood in his face and extremities seem to run to his heart, which pumped away violently, causing his head to feel giddy, and his hands and feet to tingle and jerk.

"Will you leave go?" he cried in a low, hoarse whisper.

"No, I sharn't, yer cowardly sneak," cried Pete triumphantly, for the white face and trembling voice were delightful to him. He had his enemy metaphorically upon his knees, and it was pure delight to him to have Tom at his mercy. "Yer've bounced it over me long enough when yer'd got any one to help yer, or you was at home; but I've got yer now, and I'm going to pay yer, and teach yer, and let yer know what's what. Where's that there sixpence yer owe me?"

"Will you let go?" cried Tom, more huskily than ever, but with his eyes blazing.

"No," cried Pete, grinning, and giving his imaginary victim a tremendous shake.

The last wreath of Tom's philanthropic mist had evaporated.

Click—Clack!

It was the only way in which he could use his fists from the manner in which he was being held; so Tom struck sharply upwards, his blows taking effect upon Pete's lower jaw, and jerking his head sharply, making him loose his hold and stagger back, to go down in a sitting position amongst the furze.

He did not stay there a moment, but rebounded as quickly as if he had been bumped down violently upon a spring bed.

There the comparison ends, for Pete uttered a yell of agony and rage, which made him rush again at the lad, grinning like a dog, and meaning to take a savage revenge. But to his astonishment Tom did not attempt to run away. He flew to meet him, when there was a sharp encounter, heavy blows were delivered on either side, and Pete went down, but this time on the grass.

He was up again directly, clinging still to the belief that his adversary was horribly afraid, and merely fighting in desperation; and once more he rushed at Tom, who was quite ready to rush at him.

And then for fully ten minutes there was a succession of desperate encounters. They were not in the slightest degree scientific; they were not what people call rounds, and there was no squaring, for everything was of the most singular description: arms flew about like windmill sails; fists came in contact with fists, arms, heads, faces, chests, and at times—in a curly or semi-circular kind of blow—with backs and shoulders. Now they were up, now they were down; then up again to close, hitting, wrestling, and going down to continue the hitting on the ground. Sometimes Tom was undermost, sometimes Pete occupied that position.

And so the fight went on desperately for the above-named ten minutes, at the end of which time they went down together with a heavy thud, after Pete had run in with his head down like a ram, receiving a couple of heavy cracks, but succeeding in gripping Tom about the waist, and trying to lift and throw him.

But the long, big, loose-jointed fellow had miscalculated his strength. Far stronger than Tom at the commencement, his powers had soon begun to fail, while, though panting heavily, thickset, sturdy, bulldog like Tom had plenty of force left in him still, the result being that Pete's effort to lift and throw him proved a failure, ending in a dexterous wrench throwing him off his balance, and another sending him down with his adversary upon his chest.

The next minute Tom had extricated himself, Pete's clutch giving way easily; a leg was dragged out from beneath him, and Tom sat panting on the grass, ready to spring up if Pete made a movement.

But there was none of an inimical nature, for Pete was completely beaten, and lay upon his back wagging his head from side to side, and drawing up and straightening his legs slowly, as if he were a frog swimming upside down.

Then he began to howl, with the tears streaming out of his eyes; but for the time being Tom was still too hot, and there was too much of the natural desire in him to injure his adversary for him to feel any compassion.

"Do you give in?" he shouted.

"Oh—oh—oh!" yelled Pete, in a hoarse, doleful mingling of cry and word. "Yer've killed me! yer've killed me!"

"Dead people can't talk," cried Tom tauntingly. "Serve you right if I had."

Probably this was a bit of hectoring, and not the real feeling, consequent upon the great state of exaltation to which the fight had raised him.

"Yer've killed me, yer great coward; yer've killed me!" wailed Pete again, excitement having probably acted upon his eyes after the fashion attributed to a horse's, which are said to magnify largely, and made Tom seem unusually big.

"Coward, am I?" cried Tom, rising. "You get up, and I'll show you."

"Ow—ow—ow! Help! help!"

"Get up," said Tom, giving his adversary a thrust with his foot, and another and another, feeling a kind of fierce satisfaction in so doing, for every thrust brought forth a howl.