The Vast Abyss

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

“Now, my lad, wake up. Here’s your uncle.”

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

“Well, have you got him?”

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

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

“Bime by, sir. I’ll make it twelve first,” said David.

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

“Then he’ll be here before it’s light,” said David.

“Perhaps, but we can’t spare time for this night work. Home with you,” cried Uncle Richard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I don’t think so,” cried Tom, laughing.

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

“All right, David. Good-night.”

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

Chapter Twenty Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, it warn’t for many minutes, Master Tom.”

“An hour.”

“Nay, sir, nay; not a ’our.”

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

“Well, I s’pose I did, sir, just a little.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good-morning, sir,” said Tom cheerily.

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

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

“Yes – no – not yet.”

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

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

“Thank you, no.”