“See,” he said to himself, “how, in spite of all driving away, the poor thing kept on coming back to the cottage, and how wonderfully it led me here, and worked by my side. He’ll do it. I’m sure he will, and before long I shall see uncle coming.”
Then the time wore on, till these hopes were dashed again, and a despairing fit of low spirits attacked the watcher. “It’s of no use,” he said, half aloud; “I must go;” and he bent over the still open hole, to try and think out some plan of keeping back the sand. But all in vain; he felt that there was no way. Either he must stop there to keep on scooping the place free every few minutes, or leave it to take its chance while he went for help.
“No, I can’t,” he cried; “it’s throwing away the very last hope. I must stay. Oh, why does not some one come?”
Tom’s face darkened now, for his over-strained imagination had painted a fresh picture – that of the miserable-looking cur somewhere close at hand, settled down in a hollow to deliberately gnaw the sandy bone. For it was too much to expect of a dog that, after perhaps starving for eight-and-forty hours, it would leave the meal for which it hungered, and go and deliver such a message as that upon which it was sent.
“Oh, how long! how long!” he groaned. “I could have gone there and back half-a-dozen times.”
It was a moderate computation according to Tom’s feelings, for it seemed to him half the day must have glided by in the agony he was suffering.
But it had not. Time had been going steadily on at its customary rate, in spite of the way in which the lad in his excitement had pushed on the hands of his mental clock.
“I must go,” he cried at last, “or no help will come. That brute is somewhere close by, I’m sure. Here, hi!” he shouted; but there was no reply – no dog came bounding up; and after listening for a few minutes he began to whistle loudly, when his heart seemed suddenly to stop its beating as he leaned forward listening, for, faint and distant but quite clear, there came an answering whistle.
He whistled again, and he pressed his hand upon his breast, feeling half choked with emotion.
The signal was answered, and directly after there was a distant hail, followed by a joyous barking, and the dog came bounding up, to rush down into the hollow, thrust its sharp nose into the burrow, take it out, begin barking again, and then dash off once more among the clustering pine-trunks.
Tom whistled again, then hailed, was answered, hailed again, and sank down half choked by the emotion he felt, and hard pressed to keep back a burst of feeling which tried to unman him.
“This way! ahoy!” he yelled, as he leaped up out of the hole, himself once more. “Quick! help! ahoy!”
Then the dog tore up barking furiously, half wild with excitement, and directly after Tom caught sight of the Vicar, closely followed by his uncle; and then came David with a bundle of tools over his shoulder, followed at a short distance by the village bricklayer, the carpenter, and two more men.
At this a peculiar giddy feeling came over the watcher, there was a strange singing in his ears, and he stood there as if stunned.
Chapter Fifty One
“Where is he?” cried Uncle Richard. “Yes, I see!”
The words brought Tom back to himself, and he was as active again as the rest, his strange seizure having lasted only a few moments.
“Heaven grant that we are not too late!” said the Vicar. “Here, Tom, you had better keep the dog back.”
“But you are sure some one is buried here?” said Uncle Richard.
“Yes; it is Pete Warboys – he has a kind of cave here. It’s crushed in,” Tom hastened to explain.
“If we try to dig him out we shall suffocate him,” cried Uncle Richard, speaking as if he had no doubt of the boy living still. “Look here, carpenter – David, there is only one way: three of us must be here with a rope fastened to this great root, and three others must work at a branch yonder. We shall have great leverage then, and we may be able to turn the trunk right over.”
“Want a screw-jack, sir,” said the carpenter.
“We must make screw-jacks of ourselves,” cried Uncle Richard. “You, David, take the axe and lop off a few of the branches that will be in our way; you, carpenter, saw off three or four of these roots as closely as you can; Tom, keep the hole open; Mr Maxted, keep the dog out of the way; I’ll make fast the ropes.”
Every one went to work at once as Uncle Richard fell back into his old way when he was a planter with a couple of hundred coolies under him, and acre after acre of primeval forest to clear before he could begin to cultivate the ground.
Then the dog barked furiously for a few moments, but at a word from Tom crouched panting with its tongue out and ears pricked, evidently satisfied with the efforts being made to release its master. The strokes of the axe fell thick and fast, the saw rasped through the wood, and dust and chips flew, while the forest echoed to the sounds of busy work.
Best part of an hour’s hard toil, and then one side of the tree was fairly clear; the ropes were tied to root and branch projecting at right angles, and the ends passed round tree-trunks.
“Now then!” said Uncle Richard. “Ready?”
“Hadn’t we better haul straight, sir?” cried the carpenter. “It’ll give us more power.”
“No,” said Uncle Richard; “the pulling will be harder, but we can hold inch by inch this way, and make fast the ropes when we have turned the trunk over.”
“Right, sir,” said the man.
Then the word was given, and after a glance to see that the burrow was still open, Tom seized the end of the rope, to add his bit of weight, wondering the while whether they would injure the poor fellow beneath, but pretty well satisfied that they were pulling right away.
The tree creaked and moved, some smaller branches snapped, but no good was done.
“All together again,” cried Uncle Richard; and they panted and hauled, but all in vain.
“Off with that rope from the branch,” cried Uncle Richard.
This was done, and it was then made fast to another projecting root, so that all could pull at the one end.
Again the word was given, but there was no result, and after a couple more tries the task seemed hopeless, when Tom seized the saw, and began to cut at a piece of root which he had seen rise a little and move some sand.
“Hah, that’s right,” cried the Vicar; “that’s a sound root, and holds the tree down.”
In five minutes the saw was through, and once more all began to haul, when the great tree seemed to give, turning over slowly like a wheel, and amidst shouts and cheers, and a furious burst of barking from the dog, the mass turned more and more, till the whole tree, with its vast root, had made a complete revolution; and when the ropes had been made fast, to secure it, there was the great hollow clear, but the sand had gone down with a rush, and the burrow was covered in.
Tom did not wait for the trunk to be secured, for he had seen the result.
“Don’t, boy, don’t,” shouted the Vicar; “the tree may come back and crush you.”
“Let it!” muttered Tom between his teeth, as he dropped upon his knees, scooping away at the sand, helped now by the dog, which began to be too useful, and got in the way. All the same though, by the time the tree was fast the sand had been swept from Pete Warboys’ face; and David and Uncle Richard stooping and passing their hands beneath him, very little effort was required to draw him right out of the hole, and up among the pine-trees, where he was laid gently down, amid a profound silence, while Uncle Richard knelt beside him, and the dog, after a furious volley of barks, began to snuffle at its master’s face.
“Dead?” whispered the Vicar, as Uncle Richard carefully made his examination, just as he had many a time played medicine-man or surgeon to a sick or injured coolie.
He made some answer, but it was drowned by the dog, which threw up its head and uttered a mournful howl, while a feeling of awe made those around look on in silence.
“You are in too great a hurry, my good friend,” said Uncle Richard then, as he turned to the dog. “There’s a little life in your master yet, but one arm is broken, and I’m afraid that he is badly crushed.”
Tom drew a breath full of relief, while his uncle rose to his feet.
“I think, Maxted, if you will go on first, and warn his grandmother, and have a bed ready, and also get the doctor there, we will make a litter of a couple of poles and some fir-boughs, and carry him home. It would be better for you to go to the old woman than for Tom.”
“Yes,” said the Vicar, who set aside his regular quiet, sedate bearing, and ran off through the wood at a sharp trot.
“Out with your knife, Tom,” cried Uncle Richard; “cut a piece three feet long off one of those ropes, and unravel it into string.”
Tom set to work, while the carpenter cut off a couple of straight fir-boughs, which David trimmed quickly with the axe, and a few cross-pieces were sawn off about thirty inches long.
Then Tom stared in wonder to see how rapidly his uncle bound the short pieces of wood across the long, afterwards weaving in small pieces of the green fir, and forming a strong, fairly soft litter.
“Not the first time by many, Tom,” he said. “Accidents used to be frequent in clearing forest in the East. There: that will do. Now for our patient.”
He knelt down beside Pete, placed a bough of thickly-clothed fir beneath the injured arm, and then closely bound all to the boy’s side.
“More harm is often done to a broken limb by letting it swing about,” he said, “than by the fracture itself. Now four of us together. Pass your hands beneath him, enlace your fingers, and when I give the word, all lift.”
This was done, Pete deposited upon the litter, and secured there by one of the ropes, after which he was carefully borne to his grandmother’s cottage, where the doctor was already waiting, and the old woman, tramping about stick in hand, looking as if prepared to attack her visitors for bringing down mischief upon the head of her grandson.
At last, as the boy was laid upon a mattress, she began to scold at Uncle Richard, but only to be brought up short by the doctor, who sternly bade her be silent, and not interrupt him while he examined Pete and set his arm.
This silenced the poor old woman, who stood back looking on, till the doctor had finished, and gone away to fetch medicine for his patient.
“Yes,” he said, “very bad, and will be worse, for in all probability he will have a sharp attack of fever, and be delirious when he recovers his speech. It is really wonderful that he is still alive.”
As these words were said, Tom looked back through the open cottage door, to see Pete lying motionless upon the mattress, and the dog sitting up beside him, looking down at the still white face.
“Looking at the dog, Tom?” said the Vicar.
“Yes, sir. What a faithful beast it is.”
“Splendid,” said the Vicar. “And yet I’ve seen Pete ill-use the poor brute, and I’m afraid it was half-starved; but it does not seem to influence the dog’s affection for him.”
“No, sir, not a bit. There are worse things than dogs, sir.”
“Yes, Tom,” said the Vicar, tightening his lips, “a great deal.”
That night Pete’s eyes opened, and he began talking rapidly about falling trees and sand, and the black darkness; but his grandmother, worn-out with watching, had fallen asleep, and there was no one to hearken but the dog, which reached over every now and then to lick his face or hands.
And at the touch the injured, delirious lad grew calmer, to drop off into his feverish sleep again, while, when Tom came early the next morning, it was to meet the doctor coming away.
“Don’t go in,” he said; “you can do no good; quiet and time are the only remedies for him. – Ah, good-morning, Mr Maxted.”
For the Vicar was up early too, and had come to see after his worst parishioner.
“Good-morning, doctor. May I go in?”
“Yes, if you will be quiet.”
The Vicar stole in, stayed for some time, and then came out as silently as he had gone in, to look inquiringly at the doctor.
“You think he will die?” he said.
“I hope not,” replied the doctor earnestly. “Not if I can prevent it.”
Just then there was another visitor to the cottage in the person of Uncle Richard, while soon after David appeared round the corner, where there was a sharp bend in the lane, having risen and started an hour earlier so as to come round by Mother Warboys’, and inquire about the injured lad.
“Don’t you go a-thinking that I keer a nutshell about Pete Warboys, Master Tom,” said David, as he was looking into the cottage with the boy by his side, “because I don’t, and it sims to me as the fewer Pete Warboyses there is in the world the better we should be. It warn’t him I come about’s mornin’ – not Pete, you know, but the lad as had had an accident, and got nearly killed. See?”
“Yes, I see, David,” said Tom, nodding his head.
“It’s him as has got the friends – the young accident – not Pete. Say, Master Tom?”
“Yes.”
“If Pete Warboys dies – ”
“Hush! don’t talk about it,” cried Tom in horror.
“Oh, cert’ny not, sir, if you don’t wish me to. May I talk about the dog?”
“Oh yes, of course,” cried Tom, as he looked round at the bright, smiling earth, glittering with diamond-like dew, and thought how terrible it would be for one so young to be snatched away.
“Well, sir, I was thinking a deal about that dog last night, for I couldn’t sleep, being a bit overcome like.”
“Yes, I was awake a long time,” said Tom, with a sigh.
“Not so long as I was, sir, I’ll bet a bewry pear. Well, sir, I lay a-thinking that if – mind, I only says if, sir – if Pete Warboys was to die, how would it be, if master didn’t say no, and I was to knock him up a barrel for a kennel to live in our yard?”
“I should ask uncle to let me keep him, David, for he’s a wonderful dog.”
“I don’t go so far as that, sir, for he’s a dog as has had a horful bad eddication, but something might be made of him; and it was a pity, seeing why he came yowling about our place, as you was so handy heaving stones at him.”
“What?” cried Tom indignantly.
“Well, sir, p’r’aps it was me. But it weer a pity, warn’t it?”
“Brutal,” cried Tom.
“Ah, it weer. He’s a horful hugly dog though.”
“Not handsome certainly,” replied Tom.
“That he arn’t, sir, nowheres. But if he was fed reg’lar like, so as to alter his shape, and I took off part of his ears, and about half his tail, he might be made to look respectable.”
“Rubbish!” cried Tom.
“Oh no, it arn’t, sir. Dogs can be wonderfully improved. But what do you say to askin’ cook to save the bits and bones while there’s no one to feed him? I’ll take ’em every day as I go home from work. What do you say?”
“Yes, of course,” cried Tom; and from that day the ugly mongrel was regularly fed, but after the first feeding it did not trouble David to take the food, but left its master’s side about three o’clock every afternoon, and came and fetched the food itself.
“Which it’s only nat’ral,” said David, with a grim smile; “for if ever I did see a dog as had ribs that looked as if they’d been grown into a basket to hold meat, that dog is Pete Warboys’; but I hope as good meat and bones ’ll do something to make his hair grow decent, for he’s a reg’lar worser as he is.”
Chapter Fifty Two
It was about a fortnight after the accident, that Tom was returning one day from Mother Warboys’ cottage, where the old woman had sat scowling at him, while Pete lay back perfectly helpless, and smiled faintly at his visitor, when he met Mrs Fidler by the gate looking out for him.
“There’s some one come from London to see you, Master Tom.”
“From London?”
“Yes, sir; he said his name was Pringle.”
“Pringle!” cried Tom eagerly. “Where is he?”
“In the dining-room with your uncle, sir; and I was to send you in as soon as you came back.”
Tom hurried in, and found the clerk from Gray’s Inn very smartly dressed. His hat was all glossy, and there was a flower in his button-hole.
“Ah, Pringle,” cried the boy, “I’m so glad to see you. This is Pringle, who was so kind to me, uncle, when I was at the office.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Richard, rather grimly; “Mr Pringle has already introduced himself, and – ahem! – told me of the friendly feeling which existed between you.”
The clerk, who had evidently been very uncomfortable, had brightened up a little at the sight of Tom, but his countenance fell again at Uncle Richard’s words.
“Now, Mr Pringle, perhaps you will be good enough to repeat that which you have told me – in confidence, for I should like my nephew to hear it, so that he can give his opinion upon the matter.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Pringle, brightening up, and becoming the sharp-speaking clerk once more. “The fact is, Mr Thomas, I have left Mr Brandon’s office – which I won’t deceive you, sir, he didn’t give me no chance to resign, but in consequence of a misunderstanding with Mr Samuel, because I wouldn’t tell lies for him, he sent me off at once.”
“I am very sorry, Pringle,” said Tom sympathetically.
“So am I, sir,” replied the clerk; “and same time, so I ain’t. But to business, sir. So long as I was Mr Brandon’s clerk, sir, my mouth seemed to be shut, sir; but now I ain’t Mr Brandon’s clerk, sir, it’s open; and feeling, as I did, that there are things that you and your respected uncle ought to hear – ”
“About my uncle and cousin?” cried Tom, flushing.
“Yes, sir. There was certain papers, sir, as – ”
“Thank you, Pringle,” cried Tom quickly; “neither my Uncle Richard nor I want to hear a single word about matters that are dead and buried.”
“Thank you, Tom,” cried Uncle Richard eagerly. “Mr Pringle will bear me out when I say, that you have used my exact words.”
“Yes, sir,” said Pringle, looking into his hat, as if to consult the maker’s name. “I can corroborate that – the very words.”
“So you see, Mr Pringle,” continued Uncle Richard, rising to lay his hand upon his nephew’s shoulder, “you have brought your information to a bad market, and if you expected to sell – ”
“Which I’m sure I didn’t, sir,” cried the clerk, springing up, and indignantly banging his hat down upon the table, to its serious injury about the crown. “I never thought about a penny, sir, and I wouldn’t take one. I came down here, sir, because I was free, sir, and to try and do a good turn to Mr Thomas here, sir, who was always a pleasant young gentleman to me, and I didn’t like the idea of his being done out of his rights.”
“Indeed!” said Uncle Richard, looking at the man searchingly.
“Yes, sir, indeed; I’d have spoken sooner if I could, but I always said to myself there was plenty of time for it before Mr Thomas would be of age. Good-morning, sir; good-morning, Mr Thomas. I’d like to shake hands with you once more. I’m glad to see you, sir, grown so, and looking so happy; but don’t you go thinking that I came down on such a mean errand as that. I ain’t perfect, I know, and in some cases I might have expected something, but I didn’t here.”
“I don’t think you did, Pringle,” cried Tom, holding out his hand, at which the clerk snatched.
“Neither do I, Mr Pringle, now,” said Uncle Richard, “though I did at first. Thank you for your proffer, but once more, that unhappy business is as a thing forgotten to my nephew and me.”
“Very good, sir; I’m very sorry I came,” began Pringle.
“And I am not. I beg your pardon, Mr Pringle; and I am sure my nephew is very glad to see you.”
“Oh, don’t say no more about it, sir; I only thought – ”
“Yes, you did not quite know us simple country people,” said Uncle Richard. “There, Tom, see that your visitor has some lunch. Dinner at the usual time, and we’ll have tea at half-past seven, so as to give you both a long afternoon. I dare say Mr Pringle will enjoy a fine day in the country.”
“I should, sir, but I’ve to go back.”
“Plenty of time for that,” said Uncle Richard; “the station fly shall be here to take you over in time for the last train. There, you will excuse me.”
That evening, as Tom rode over to the station with his visitor, and just before he said good-bye, Pringle rubbed away very hard at his damaged hat, but in vain, for the breakage still showed, and exclaimed —
“I don’t care, sir, I won’t believe it.”
“Believe what, Pringle?”
“As them two’s brothers, sir. It’s against nature. Look here, I wouldn’t have it at first, but he was quite angry, and said I must, and that I was to take it as a present from you.”
“What is it?” said Tom; “a letter?”
“Yes, sir, to your uncle’s lawyer, asking him as a favour to try and get me work.”
“Then you’ll get it, Pringle,” cried Tom.
“That I shall, sir. And look here, cheque on his banker for five-and-twenty pounds, as he would make me have, to be useful till I get a fresh clerkship. Now, ought I to take it, Mr Thomas?”
“Of course,” cried Tom. “There, in with you. Good-night, Pringle, good-night.”
“But ought I to take that cheque, Mr Thomas? because I didn’t earn it, and didn’t want to,” cried Pringle, leaning out of the carriage window; “Ought I to keep it, sir?”
“Yes,” cried Tom, as the train moved off, and he ran along the platform, “to buy a new hat.”