He was not in the least afraid, but his face felt flushed, and there was a curious tingling in the nerves which made him picture a scene in the garden, in which he was chasing Pete Warboys round and round, getting a cut at him with the stick from time to time, and at last making him turn at bay, when a desperate fight ensued.

It seemed a long time too till half-past eight, and though he took up a book of natural history full of interest, it seemed to be as hard reading as Tidd’s Practice, in Gray’s Inn.

“Seat uncomfortable, Tom?” said his uncle at last.

“No, uncle,” said the boy, colouring. “Why?”

“Because you can’t sit still. Oh, I understand. You are thinking of going out to watch.”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Humph! More than the pears are worth, Tom.”

“Do you think so, uncle?”

“Decidedly. But there, the thief deserves to be caught – and thrashed; but don’t be too hard upon him.”

Tom brightened up at this, and looked at the clock on the mantel-piece.

“Why, it’s stopped,” he said.

“Stopped? Nonsense,” said Uncle Richard, looking at his watch.

“But it must have stopped. I don’t think it has moved lately.”

“The clock is going all right, Tom, but not so fast as your desires. There, try a little patience; and don’t stop after ten. If the plunderer is not here by that time he will not come to-night – if he comes at all.”

“Very well, uncle,” said Tom, and after another glance at the clock, which still did not seem to move, he settled down with his head resting upon his fists, to study the giraffe, of which there was a large engraving, with its hide looking like a piece of the map of the moon, the spots being remarkably similar to the craters and ring-plains upon the moon’s surface, while the giraffe itself, with its long sprawling legs, would put him in mind of Pete Warboys. Then he read how it had been designed by nature for its peculiar life in the desert, and so that it could easily reach up and crop the leaves of trees from fifteen to twenty feet above the ground; but it did not, as he pictured it in his mind, seem to be picking leaves, but Marie Louise pears, while David was creeping up behind with his elastic hazel stick, and —

Ting.

Half-past eight by the dining-room clock, and Tom sprang up.

“Going, my boy?”

“Yes, uncle, David will be waiting.”

Uncle Richard nodded, and taking his cap and the hazel stick he had brought in, the boy went out silently, to find that it was a very soft dark night – so dark, in fact, that as soon as he had stepped on to the lawn he walked into one of the great bushes of laurustinus, and backed out hurriedly to reconsider which was the way. Then he stepped gently forward over the soft damp grass of the lawn, with his eyes now growing more accustomed to the darkness.

Directly after there was a low whistle heard.

“Where are you, David?”

“Here, sir. Come down between the raspberries.”

“Where are they, David? All right, I see now,” whispered Tom, and he stepped as far as he could across the flower-bed, which ran down beside the kitchen-garden, and the next minute felt the gardener’s hand stretched out to take his.

“Got your stick, sir?”

“Yes; all right. He hasn’t come then yet.”

“Not yet, sir. Here you are; now you can kneel down alongside o’ me. Mustn’t be no more talking.”

Tom knelt on the soft horse-cloth, feeling his knees indent the soil beneath; and then with his head below the tops of the black-currant bushes, whose leaves gave out their peculiar medicinal smell, he found that though perfectly hidden he could dimly make out the top of the garden wall, where the pears hung thickly not many feet away, and the watchers were so situated that a spring would take them into the path, close to any marauder who might come.

“One moment, David,” whispered Tom, “and then I won’t speak again. Which way do you think he’ll come?”

“Over the wall from the field, and then up along the bed, so as his feet arn’t heard. If I hear anything I nips you in the leg. If you hear anything, you nips me.”

“Not too hard,” said Tom, and the watch began.

At first there was the rattle of a cart heard coming along the road, a long way off, and Tom knelt there sniffing the odour of the blackcurrants, and trying to calculate where the cart would be. But after a time that reached the village and passed on, and the tramp of the horse and the rattle of the wheels died out.

Then he listened to the various sounds in the village – voices, the closing of doors, the rattle of shutters; and all at once the church clock began to strike, the nine thumps on the bell coming very slowly, and the last leaving a quivering, booming sound in the air which lasted for some time.

After this all was very still, and it was quite a relief to hear the barking of a dog from some distance away, followed by the faintly-heard rattle of a chain drawn over the entrance of the kennel, when the barking ceased, and repeated directly after as the barking began again.

Everything then was wonderfully still and dark, till a peculiar cry arose – a weird, strange cry, as of something in pain, which thrilled Tom’s nerves.

“Rabbit?” he whispered.

“Hedgehog,” grumbled David hoarsely; “don’t talk.”

Silence again for a minute or two, and the peculiar sensation caused by the cry of the bristly animal still hung in Tom’s nerves, when there was another noise which produced a thoroughly different effect, for a donkey from somewhere out on the common suddenly gave vent to its doleful extraordinary bray, ending in a most dismal squeaking yell, suggestive of all the wind being out of its organ.

Tom smiled as he knelt there, wondering how Nature could have given an animal so strange a cry, as all was again still, till voices arose once more in the village; some one said “Good-night!” then a door banged, and, pat pat, he could hear faintly retiring steps, “Good-night” repeated, and then close to his elbow —

Snor-rr-re.

“David!” he whispered, as he touched the gardener on the shoulder – “David!”

“Arn’t better taters grow’d, I say, and – Eh? Is he comed?”

“No! Listen,” said Tom, thinking it as well not to allude to his companion’s lapse.

“Oh ay, I’m a-listenin’, sir, with all my might,” whispered the gardener; “but I don’t think it’s him yet. Wait a bit, and we’ll nab him if he don’t mind.”

Silence again for quite ten minutes, and then David exclaimed —

“Wuph!” and lurched over sidewise up against his companion, but jerked himself up again, and said in a gruff whisper full of reproach, “Don’t go to sleep, Master Tom.”

“No. All right, I’m awake,” replied the boy, laughing to himself, and the watching went on again, the time passing very slowly, and the earth which had felt so soft beneath the knees gradually turning hard.

There was not a sound to be heard now, till the heavy breathing on his left suggested that David was dozing off again, and set him thinking that one was enough to keep vigil, and that he could easily rouse his companion if the thief came.

He felt a little vexed at first that David, who had been so eager to watch, should make such a lapse; but just in his most indignant moments, when he felt disposed to give a sudden lurch sidewise to knock the gardener over like a skittle, and paused, hesitating, he had an admonition, which showed him how weak human nature is at such times, in the shape of a sudden seizure. One moment he was wakeful and thinking, the next he was fast asleep, dreaming of being back at Gray’s Inn – soundly asleep, in fact.

This did not last while a person could have counted ten. Then he was wide-awake again, ready to continue the watch, and let David rest.

“It’s rum though,” he said to himself, as he crouched there, and now softly picked a leaf to nibble, and feel suggestions of taking a powder in a spoonful of black-currant jelly, so strong was the flavour in the leaf. “Very rum,” he thought. “One’s wide-awake, and the next moment fast asleep.”

He started then, for he fancied that he heard a sound, but though he listened attentively he could distinguish nothing; and the time went on, with David’s breathing growing more deep and heavy; and upon feeling gently to his left, it was to find that the gardener was now right down with his elbows on the ground and his face upon his hands.

“Any one might come and clear all the pears away if I were not here.”

But Tom felt very good-humoured over the business, as he thought of certain remarks he would be able to make to the gardener next day; and he was running over this, and wishing that some one would come to break the monotonous vigil, when there was the sound of a door opening up at the cottage, and then steps on the gravel path. Directly after Uncle Richard’s voice was heard.

“Now, Tom, my lad, just ten o’clock; give it up for to-night. Where are you?”

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.”

The Vicar coughed again to get rid of an unpleasant huskiness, and then, as if with an effort —

“The fact is, Thomas Blount, I am glad he is not here, for I wish to say a few words to you seriously. I did mean to speak to him, but this is better. It shall be a matter of privacy between us, and I ask you, my boy, to treat me not as your censor but as your friend – one who wishes you well.”

“Yes, sir, of course. Thank you, sir, I will,” said Tom, who felt puzzled, and grew more and more uncomfortable as he wondered what it could all mean, and finally, as the Vicar remained silent, concluded that it must be something to do with his behaviour in church. Then no, it could not be that, for he could find no cause of offence.

“I know,” thought Tom suddenly. “He wants me to go and read with him, Latin and Greek, I suppose, or mathematics.”

The Vicar coughed again, and looked so hard at Tom that the boy felt still more uncomfortable, and hurriedly began to pull down his rolled-up shirt-sleeves and to button his cuffs.

“Don’t do that, Thomas Blount,” said the Vicar, still more huskily; “there is nothing to be ashamed of in honest manual labour.”

“No, sir, of course not,” said the lad, still more uncomfortable, for it was very unpleasant to be addressed as “Thomas Blount,” in that formal way.

“I often regret,” said the Vicar, “that I have so few opportunities for genuine hard muscular work, and admire your uncle for the way in which he plunges into labour of different kinds. For such work is purifying, Thomas Blount, and ennobling.”

This was all very strange, and seemed like the beginning of a lecture, but Tom felt better, and he liked the Vicar – at least at other times, but not now.

“Will you be honest with me, my lad?” said the visitor at last.

“Oh yes, sir,” was the reply, for “my lad” sounded so much better than formal Thomas Blount.

“That’s right. Ahem!”

Another cough. A pause, and Tom coloured a little more beneath the searching gaze that met his.

“Were you out last night?” came at last, to break a most embarrassing silence.

“Yes, sir.”

“Out late?”

“Yes, sir; quite late.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the Vicar, who looked now very hard and stern. “One moment – would you mind lending me your knife?”

“My knife!” faltered Tom, astounded at such a request; and then, in a quick, hurried way – “I’m so sorry, sir, I cannot. I was looking for it just now, but I’ve lost it.”

“Lost it? Dear me! Was it a valuable knife?”

“Oh no, sir, only an old one, with the small blade broken.”

“Would you mind describing it to me?”

“Describing it, sir? Of course not. It had a big pointed blade, and a black and white bone handle.”

“And the small blade broken, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Had it any other mark by which you would know it? Knives with small blades broken are very general.”

“No, sir, no other mark. Oh yes, it had. I filed a T and a B in it one day, but it was very badly done.”

“Very, Thomas Blount,” said the Vicar, taking something from his breast-pocket. “Is that your knife?”

“Yes,” cried Tom eagerly, “that’s it! Where did you find it, sir? I know; you must have taken it off that bench by mistake when uncle showed you round.”

“No, Thomas Blount,” said the Vicar, shaking his head, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the lad; “I found it this morning in my garden.”

“You couldn’t, sir,” cried Tom bluntly. “How could it get there?”

The Vicar gazed at him without replying, and Tom added hastily —

“I beg your pardon, sir. I meant that it is impossible.”

“The knife asserts that it is possible, sir. Take it. A few pence would have bought those plums.”

The hand Tom had extended dropped to his side.

“What plums, sir?” he said, feeling more and more puzzled.

“Bah! I detest pitiful prevarication, sir,” cried the Vicar warmly. “The knife was dropped by whoever it was stripped the wall of my golden drops last night. There, take your knife, sir, I have altered my intentions. I did mean to speak to your uncle.”

“What about?” said Uncle Richard, who had come up unheard in the excitement. “Good-morning, Maxted. Any one’s cow dead? Subscription wanted?”

“Oh no,” said the Vicar. “It must out now. I suppose some one’s honour has gone a little astray.”

“Then we must fetch it back. Whose? Not yours, Tom?”

“I don’t know, uncle,” said the boy, with his forehead all wrinkled up. “Yes, I do. Mr Maxted thinks I went to his garden last night to steal plums. Tell him I didn’t, uncle, please.”

“Tell him yourself, Tom.”

“I can’t,” said Tom bluntly, and a curiously stubborn look came over his countenance. Then angrily – “Mr Maxted oughtn’t to think I’d do such a thing.”

The Vicar compressed his lips and wrinkled up his forehead.

“Well, I can,” said Uncle Richard. “No, Maxted, he couldn’t have stolen your plums, because he was out quite late stealing pears – the other way on.”

“Uncle!” cried Tom, as the Vicar now looked puzzled.

“We apprehended a visit from a fruit burglar, and Tom here and my gardener were watching, but he did not come. Then he visited you instead?”

“Yes, and dropped this knife on the bed beneath the wall.”

“Let me look,” said Uncle Richard. “Why, that’s your knife, Tom.”

“Yes, uncle.”

“How do you account for that? Policemen don’t turn burglars.”

“It seems I lost it, uncle. I haven’t seen it, I think, since I had it to put a wedge under that leg of the stool.”

“And when was that?”

“As far as I can remember, uncle, it was the day or the day before the speculum was broken. I fancy I left it on the window-sill or bench.”

“Plain as a pike-staff, my dear Maxted,” said Uncle Richard, clapping the Vicar on the shoulder. “You have had a visit from the gentleman who broke my new speculum.”

“You suspected your nephew of breaking the speculum,” said the Vicar.

“Oh!” cried Tom excitedly:

“Yes, but I know better now. You’re wrong, my dear sir, quite wrong. We can prove such an alibi as would satisfy the most exacting jury. Tom was with me in my room until half-past eight, and from that hour to ten I can answer for his being in the garden with my man David.”

“Then I humbly beg your nephew’s pardon for my unjust suspicions,” cried the Vicar warmly. “Will you forgive me – Tom?”

“Of course, sir,” cried the boy, seizing the extended hand. “But you are convinced now, sir?”

“Perfectly; but I want to know who is the culprit. Can you help me?”

“We’re trying to catch him, sir,” said Tom.

“I’m afraid I know,” said Uncle Richard.

“Yes, and I’m afraid that I know,” said the Vicar, rather angrily. “I’ll name no names, but I fancy you suspect the same body that I did till I found our young friend’s knife.”

“And if we or you catch him,” said Uncle Richard, “what would you do – police?”

“No,” said the Vicar firmly, “not for every scrap of fruit I have in the garden. I don’t hold with imprisoning a boy, except as the very last resort.”

“Give him a severe talking to then?” said Uncle Richard dryly.

“First; and then I’m afraid that I should behave in a very illegal way. But he is not caught yet.”