The Vast Abyss

“Oh yes, I had hold of him.”

“Well, did he feel like Pete?”

“What nonsense! One lad would feel like another.”

“Oh no, sir, he wouldn’t. Pete’s bones’d feel all loose and shimbly. Bound to say you heared his jyntes keep on cracking.”

“No, I don’t remember that. – Yes, I do,” continued Tom excitedly. “I did hear him go crack twice when we were wrestling.”

“There you are, you see,” cried the gardener triumphantly, “that’s c’roborative evidence, and c’roborative evidence is what they make detective police on. It was Pete Warboys, sure enough.”

“I thought it must be, David.”

“Not a doubt ’bout it, sir. We’ve got him this time safe enough, and he’ll be sent away for the job, and a blessing to Furzebrough, I say. But I’ll try you again, sir. Just lead you up like. Now, then, to make more sure – you smelt him too, didn’t you?”

“Smelt him?” cried Tom.

“Ay, sir, that’s what I said. You could smell him yards away.”

“Oh no, I didn’t smell him,” said Tom, laughing.

“Do you mean to tell me, Master Tom, that, you didn’t smell Pete the other night when you was letting go at him with that stick atop o’ our wall?”

“I remember smelling onions very strong.”

“There!” cried David triumphantly. “Of course you did. I like an onion roasted, or in stuffing, or the little ’uns pickled, but that chap lives on ’em. You ask anybody in the village, and they’ll tell you they can’t keep an onion in their gardens for him. He’s a savage at ’em. And you mean to tell me that you didn’t smell onions when you was fighting with him last night?”

“No, I’m sure I didn’t.”

“I don’t like that,” said David, polishing one of his red ears. “P’r’aps he hadn’t been able to steal any yesterday. But it’s a wonder you didn’t smell that.”

“But perhaps it wasn’t Pete.”

“Now don’t say that, my lad. There’s no getting away from them bones. Nobody never had such loose bones. It was him right enough.”

“Think so, David?” said Tom dubiously.

“Course I do, Master Tom. Who else would ha’ knowed where to find Jellard’s ladder?”

“Plenty o’ people,” said Tom eagerly; “all the village.”

“Don’t you say a word, like that, Master Tom,” said the gardener solemnly, “because it arn’t right. I’ve knowed Furzebrough man and boy ever since I was born, and there arn’t a soul in it as’d go and get that ladder and break in and steal your uncle’s contrapshums. I won’t say as there arn’t a lot o’ people who talk about ’em, and believe old Mother Warboys when she says they’re bad and dangerous, and like to bring evil on the place; but, bless your ’art, sir, there arn’t one as would do your uncle harm. I won’t say as the boys, and maybe a school-gal, wouldn’t help theirselves to a happle or a pear or two as were in reach – I won’t deceive you, Master Tom, I’ve done it myself coming home from school; but take it altogether, there arn’t a honester village nowhere in Sorrey, and I’ll stick to that, even if I was up before a judge, and a jury of my fellow-countrymen swore me till I was black in the face.”

Tom smiled.

“Ah, you may laugh, sir,” said David, shaking his head; “that’s youth, and wanting to know better. I’m a bit older than you. This here’s a honest place, sir. I won’t say nothing about tramps from London, and furreners coming in search o’ work; but you might keep gold and silver jools down here without locking your doors – leastwise if Pete Warboys warn’t about; but I told you how it would be.”

“Well, let’s go down, David,” said Tom, who could not help thinking about the proverb concerning a dog with a bad name. “This shutter must have a proper fastening. But who would have thought of any one getting a ladder? You had better take it back.”

“Yes, sir, and tell old Jellard to put a chain and padlock on it, or else there’s no knowing what may happen.”

So after deciding to leave the old bureau just as it was until his uncle had examined and seen what was missing, and noting that it had been opened by means of some kind of chisel inserted just above the keyhole, Tom locked up, and then held the gate open for David to carry the ladder he had shouldered home.

“Nyste sort of a job, Master Tom,” he said, “clearing up the bits arter robbers and thieves; but there – you never knows what you may come to in this life.”

The next moment Tom had to duck his head to avoid a blow as the ladder was swung round; and that morning Mrs Fidler, who knew nothing of what had happened, took Tom aside directly after breakfast.

“I beg your pardon, Master Tom,” she began, and the boy stared; “I didn’t notice it before we begun, but I do now, and as master’s out it makes me feel anxious. You’re not well, sir.”

“Oh yes, quite well,” said Tom hastily.

“No, sir, you can’t deceive me. But I know it’s only natural for young people to say so. Physic isn’t nice, sir, but it’s very necessary sometimes, and if you would be advised by me you’d let me give you something this morning. Better late than never, sir.”

“What, me take some medicine?” cried Tom. “Nonsense! I’m quite right.”

Mrs Fidler shook her head.

“Take which you like, sir; I’ve got them both in my store closet. A tablespoonful of castor oil – ”

“Ugh!” ejaculated Tom, with a grimace.

” – Or a cupful of prune tea.”

“That sounds better,” said Tom, smiling.

Mrs Fidler shook her head.

“I shouldn’t like to deceive you, Master Tom,” she said, “because though prune tea sounds very nice, you don’t taste the French plums I make it of, but the salts and senna in which the prunes are stewed. But it’s a very, very valuable medicine, my dear, and if you will be prevailed upon – Dear me! look at that now. Oh, how obstinate young folks can be!”

For at her description of the concoction of prune tea, Tom thrust his handkerchief to his mouth, and ran out into the garden, before going across to the workshop to continue the manufacture of a perfect plane of glass, such as would satisfy Uncle Richard on his return.

Chapter Forty Two

Uncle James Brandon sat one morning a short time before the events of the night described in the last chapters, biting his nails, and looking old, yellow, and careworn. He was supposed to be quite well again, and the doctors had given up visiting him, but, as his son said in a very contemptuous, unfilial way to his mother —

“He’s better in health than temper, and if things are going on like this I shall be off somewhere, for I’m sick of it.”

For there had been quarrels daily between father and son, stormings against wife and servants, and poor Pringle the clerk had vowed to himself that he would not stay at the office for another week; but he always stayed, for there were reasons at home against his throwing himself out of work.

So Uncle James sat in his private room at the Gray’s Inn office, looking old, yellow, and biting his nails, like the ancient ogre, sometimes making up his mind in one direction, sometimes in another.

At last he touched his table gong, and, as quickly as he could get there, Pringle presented himself.

“You ring, sir?”

“You know I rang, sir,” cried Uncle James savagely. “Send him here directly.”

“Cert’ny, sir, but – er – ”