The Vast Abyss

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

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

Sure enough when he reached the garden David met him.

“Master’s been a-shouting for you, sir. Yes, there he goes again.”

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

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

“All right, uncle – round directly,” cried Tom, running off to the coach-house. “Phew! how hot I’ve made myself.”

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

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

“Here, take my arm, Jem,” he said.

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

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

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

“I’ll pull you, uncle,” said Tom, looking at him wonderingly.

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

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

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

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

“All right, uncle. Now, Uncle James, hold tight.”

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

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

“Oh, I don’t know, uncle; a good deal, I believe.”

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

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

“Yes; horrible roads. There – oh – oh – oh! Go steady.”

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

“Which are your uncle’s woods?” said Uncle James suddenly.

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

Whizz! Rustle.

“What’s that?” said Uncle James, ceasing his tiresome moaning.

“Don’t know, uncle. Rabbit, I think.”

Rap!

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

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

Crack!

“What’s that, boy?”

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

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

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

“The scoundrel! Whoever it is I’ll have a policeman to him.”

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

“No, boy, only brushed the cushion. The dog! The scoundrel! He – Stop, don’t go and leave me here.”

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

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

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

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

Which was it to be?

Chapter Twenty Two

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

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