The next morning came a letter from Mornington Crescent, announcing that James Brandon had met with an accident, and been knocked down by a cab. The letter was written by Sam, evidently at his father’s dictation, and on the fly-leaf was a postscript self-evidently not at James Brandon’s dictation, for it was as follows —

“P.S. – Dear Uncle, there isn’t much the matter, only a few bruises, only the pater makes such a fuss. Thought you’d like to know.”

“Charming youth, your cousin,” said Uncle Richard, as he rose and went into his little study to answer the letter, leaving Tom at liberty for a few minutes, which he utilised by going down the garden to where David was busy.

“Morning, sir. How’s the machine getting on?”

“Capitally, David.”

“That’s right, sir. I hope you and the master ’ll make some’at out of it, for people do go on dreadful about it down the village.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“Well, sir, of course it’s their higgorance. You and me knows better, and I shouldn’t like master to know, but they lead me a horful life about it all. They say master’s got a crack in his head about that thing he’s making, and that he ought to be stopped.”

“Why?” said Tom, laughing.

“Oh, it’s nothing to laugh about, sir. They say the place won’t be safe, for he’ll be having a blow-up one of these days with his contrapshums.”

“What nonsense!”

“Well, sir, I don’t know about that. He did have one, and singed all his hair off, and blew out his libery window.”

“Tom!”

“Coming, uncle.”

“Don’t you say a word to him, sir, please.”

“Oh, no; all right, David; and next time the people say anything to you about uncle’s experiments, you tell them they’re a pack of bull-geese!”

“Bull-geese!” said David, turning the word over two or three times as if he liked it, “bull-geese! Yes, sir, I will,” and he began to chuckle, while Tom joined his uncle, who was already on his way to the mill.

As Tom reached the lane he was just in time to meet Pete Warboys, who came slouching along with his hands as far down in his pockets as he could reach, his boots, two sizes too large, unlaced, and his dog close behind him.

Pete’s body went forward as if all together, but his eyes were on the move the while, searching in every direction as if for prey, and settled upon Tom with a peculiarly vindictive stare, while the dog left his master’s side, and began to sniff at Tom’s legs.

“Not afraid of you now,” thought the boy, as he remembered the fir-cones, and felt sure that a stone would send the dog flying at any time. But as he met Pete’s eye he did not feel half so sure. For Pete was big-boned and strong, and promised to be an ugly customer in a battle.

“And besides, he’s so dirty,” thought Tom, as he passed on to the gate, through which his uncle had just passed.

Pete said nothing until Tom had closed the gate. Then there was the appearance of a pair of dirty hands over the coping of the wall, the scraping noise made by a pair of boot toes against the bricks, and next Pete’s head appeared just above the wall, and he uttered the comprehensive word expressive of his contempt, defiance, and general disposition to regard the boy from London as an enemy whose head he felt disposed to punch. Pete’s word was —

“Yah!”

Tom felt indignant.

“Get down off that wall, sir!” he cried.

This roused Pete Warboys, who, as the daring outlaw of Furzebrough, desired to play his part manfully, especially so since he was on the other side of the said wall; and, wrinkling up his snub nose, he cried —

“She-arn’t! ’Tain’t your wall.”

“Get down!” cried Tom fiercely.

“Get down yerself. Who are you, I should like to know?”

Tom stooped and picked up a clod of earth, and Pete ducked his head, the motion causing his toes to slip out of a crevice between two bricks, and he disappeared, but only to scramble up again.

“You heave that at me,” he cried fiercely, “and I’ll come over and smash yer.”

Tom felt disposed to risk the smashing, and drew back his hand to throw the clod, when his wrist was caught, for his uncle had heard what passed, and returned to the door.

“Don’t do that, my boy,” he said quietly. Then to Pete, “Get down off that wall.”

“She-arn’t! Who are you?” cried the great hulking fellow, and he scrambled a little more upward, so as to hang over with his elbows on the top bricks.

“Then stop there,” said Uncle Richard quietly. “Don’t take any notice of him, Tom; the fellow is half an idiot.”

“So are you!” yelled Pete. “Yah! Who pulled the – ”

Whack!

“Ow! ah!” A scramble, and Pete disappeared as an angry voice was heard on the other side of the wall.

“How dare you, sir? Insolent young scoundrel! Be off with you!”

“Don’t you hit me!” came in a yelping, snivelling tone. “Don’t you hit me! You hit me, and I’ll – Get out!”

There was a dull thud, a yell, and the succession of cries uttered by a dog in pain, generally known as “chy-ike.” For, unable to vent his spleen upon his aggressor, Pete had turned upon his wretched dog, which was unfortunate enough to get between his master’s legs, nearly sending him down as he backed away from a quivering malacca cane. The dog received an awful kick, and ran down the narrow lane, and Pete followed him in a loose-jointed, shambling trot, turned into the pathway between the hedges at the bottom of Uncle Richard’s field, thrust his head back, relieved his feelings by yelling out “Yah!” and disappeared.

By this time Tom and his uncle were down at the yard gate, which they threw open, to find themselves face to face with the vicar, a little fresh-coloured, plump, grey man of five-and-forty. His brow was wrinkled with annoyance, and his grey hair and whiskers seemed to bristle, as he changed the stout cane into his left hand, pulled off his right glove, and shook hands.

“Good-morning,” he cried; “good-morning – nephew, arn’t you? Glad to know you. Only came back last night, Brandon, and the first thing I encounter in my first walk is that young scoundrel insulting you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Uncle Richard, smiling.

“But it is something, my dear sir. After all the pains I took with that boy at our school – when I could get him there – he turns out like this. Really,” he continued, laughing very good-humouredly, and looking down at his cane, “I ought not to have done it, – not becoming in a clergyman, – but the young dog was insulting you, and he was stretched over the wall so tightly. Really – ha, ha! – it was so tempting that I felt obliged.”

“Yes, it must have been tempting,” said Uncle Richard. “Well, have you come back quite strong?”

“Seems like it,” said the vicar, laughing. Then seriously, “Yes, thank heaven, I feel quite myself again.”

“That’s good,” said Uncle Richard. “I am very glad.”

“I know you are. And oh, Brandon, you can’t think how glad I am to get back to the dear old place again. My garden looks delightful; and yours?”

“Capital.”

“But, my dear fellow, what in the world are you doing with the old mill. I heard you had bought it. Sails gone, mended, painted. Why, surely – yes – no – yes, I have it – observatory.”

“Right.”

“Splendid idea. Capital. You ought to have a big telescope for that.”

“Making it,” said Uncle Richard laconically.

“Glad of it. Wish I could join you. There, good-bye, so much to do; can’t tell me, I suppose, what to do with that lad Pete Warboys?”

Uncle Richard shook his head, and the vicar shook his hand. Then as he went through the same process with Tom, he said —

“Glad to know you; I’m sure we shall be very good friends;” and then he hurried away, and the others closed the gate and went into the workshop, where the speculum was waiting to be ground.

“You’ll like Mr Maxted,” said Uncle Richard quietly. “A thorough, true-hearted gentleman, who preserves all the best of his boyhood; but come now, work.”

“Grinding?” said Tom, stripping off his jacket.

“Not yet – elutriation, Tom,” said Uncle Richard, as he led the way up to the laboratory, where the big pan was lifted down upon the stool, and the syphon used to pour the water in the white basin back again.

But not quite all. It was clear now, and at the bottom there was just a film of chocolate mud, which was most carefully trickled off with some of the water into the ready labelled little bottle.

“There, Tom, that tiny spoonful or two of paste is our finest emery, and valuable in the extreme – to us. The next thing is to get a grade coarser.”

“The same way?” said Tom.

“Nearly. Stir the whole up again.”

This was carefully done, but there was no scum now.

“We left the other sixty minutes, Tom,” said Uncle Richard; “this time we’ll leave it thirty minutes. Come along; time for two quarter-hour grinds at the speculum.”

They went down, wetted the sand, and ground away for fifteen minutes; washed the glass, started again, and at the end of another fifteen minutes went up to repeat the process of drawing off the thick water into the basin. This was left to stand till evening, when the water was poured back, and about a double quantity of thin paste to that obtained in the morning placed in a size larger bottle, and labelled “thirty-minute emery.”

Again the whole was well stirred, and left for fifteen minutes; the process repeated, and a much larger quantity obtained and bottled.

The next day the emery was stirred, and allowed to settle for five minutes; then for two minutes, and the remainder bottled by itself, this being by far the largest quantity, and in fact so much strong sharp grit.

“There!” cried Uncle Richard; “now, going backwards, we have six different grades of material, beginning with the coarse, and going up to the fine sixty-minute powder or paste for polishing, for these things have to be made exquisitely fine.”

At the next attack upon the glass to dig it out into a hollow, the sand was all carefully washed away, showing the disc to be thoroughly scratched all over, and looking somewhat like the inside of a ground-glass globe.

“So far so good, Tom,” said Uncle Richard; “now let’s try our mould.”

He took down the convex-shaped piece of zinc, and placed it upon the newly-ground-glass, into whose face it descended a little way, but only a very little.

“Not deep enough yet, Tom,” he said; “the mould ought to fit into it exactly.”

“Yes, I understand now,” said Tom; “we have got to grind more out of the middle.”

“Exactly.”

“Shall I fetch the sand back?”

“No, we will use the coarsest emery now; I dare say that will dig out enough. Now then, number one.”

The large-stoppered bottle was fetched from its shelf, and a small portion of the most coarse ground emery taken out with a spatula, spread upon the fixed glass, the speculum carefully laid upon it, and turned a little to spread the material more equally, a few drops of water having been added, and the slow, tedious grinding went on again.

“Hard work, my boy,” said Uncle Richard, as they paused at last from their laborious work, the disc they moved to and fro and round and round, as they slowly changed their positions, being exceedingly heavy.

But Tom, as soon as he got his breath, was too much interested to mind the labour, and after helping to lift one disc from the other, he looked on eagerly at his uncle’s busy fingers, as he carefully sponged and cleaned both glasses.

“See how the coarse emery we began with has become ground down.”

“Yes, into a slime,” said Tom.

“Partly glass,” said Uncle Richard, as he drew attention now to the face of the speculum, which was scratched more deeply already, and displayed a different grain.

Fresh emery out of the bottle was applied, moistened a little more, and the grinding went on for a while. Then there was a fresh washing, more of the coarse emery applied, and so the task went on hour after hour that day and the next, when in the afternoon when the zinc mould was applied to the surface it fitted in almost exactly, and Tom gave a cheer.

“Yes, that will do,” said Uncle Richard, whose face glowed with the exertion.

“What next then?” said Tom eagerly.

“The next grade of emery, boy,” was the reply; “our task is of course now not to grind the speculum deeply, but to grind out all these scratches till it is as limpid as the surface of pure water.”

“Don’t look possible,” said Tom. “Well, we will try.”

The next morning they worked for an hour before breakfast in precisely the same way, gave a couple of hours to the task after breakfast, two more in the afternoon, and one in the evening – “a regular muscle-softener,” Uncle Richard called it; but when for the last time the finely-ground emery number two was washed off, and the speculum examined, its surface looked much better, the rougher scratchings having disappeared.

Tom was all eagerness to begin the next day, when the number three emery was tried in precisely the same way. Then came work with the number four, very little of which was used at a time; and when this was put aside for number five, Tom again cheered, for the concave surface had become beautifully fine.

“Two more workings, and then the finishing,” said Uncle Richard. “Think we shall polish out all the scratchings?”

“Why, they are gone now,” cried Tom.

“Yes, it shows what patience will do,” said Uncle Richard; “a man can’t lift a house all at once, but he could do it a brick at a time.”

The speculum was carefully placed aside after its cleansing, and the pair of amateur opticians locked up the place after hanging up their aprons.

“Wouldn’t do to break that now, Tom, my boy.”

“Break it?” cried the boy; “oh, it would be horrible. Why, we should have to make another, and go through all that again.”

“Yes, Tom, but we could do it. I know of a gentleman who made a hundred of these specula with his own hands. But there will be something more interesting for you to see to-morrow.”

“What, shall we get it done?”

“By no means; but first thing of all I must test it, and to do this easily, we must be up early when the sun is shining in at the east window of our workshop. Do you think you can call me by five?”

“I’m sure of it, uncle,” cried Tom.

Chapter Fifteen

Tom kept his word, for he started into wakefulness in the grey dawn out of an uncomfortable dream, in which he had seen the unfinished speculum fall off the bench on to the stone-floor, roll like a wheel out of the door, down the slope to the gate, bound over, and then go spinning down the lane and across the green, straight for the ragstone churchyard wall, where it was shivered to pieces.

“Only a dream,” he said, as he leaped out of bed, ran to the window, and saw by the church clock that it was only half-past four.

“Time to go over and see if it is all right,” he said, as he finished dressing, “and then come back and call uncle.”

Going down-stairs, he took the keys of the mill from where they hung by the front door, went out into the garden, unlocked the gate, and went across to the mill, where, on peering through the window, he could see the glass lying just as it had been left.

“That’s all right,” said Tom; and he walked round by the back of the tower to see how the flowers and shrubs looked, when, to his startled surprise, he found footprints made by a heavy, clumsy pair of boots on the border beneath the wall.

Their meaning was plain enough. Some one had walked along there, and got out of the yard over the wall, while, upon a little further search, he found the spot where whoever it was had entered the yard by jumping down, the prints of two heels being deeply-marked in the newly-dug earth.

“That must have been Pete,” said Tom, flushing; and he looked over the wall, half expecting to see the slouching figure of the lad.

But there was no one within sight, and he looked round the yard in search of the visitor’s object. There was nothing but the old millstones stealable, and they stood here and there where they had been leaned against tower and wall; and at ten minutes to five, after noting that the sun was shining brightly, Sam went back to his uncle and called him, and at half-past five they went together to the mill-yard, where the footprints were pointed out.

“Have to keep the door carefully locked, Tom,” said Uncle Richard. “Hah! capital! the sun will be shining right through that window in a few minutes.”

They entered the workshop, where a bench was drawn opposite to the last window, and about twelve feet away. To this, with Tom’s help, the partly-polished speculum was borne.

“Not very bright for a reflector, Tom,” said Uncle Richard. “What am I to do to make it brighter?”

“Go on polishing, uncle.”

“Ah, but I want to test it this morning, to see if we have a good curve,” said Tom’s elder, smiling. “Fill the sponge with clean water and bring it here.”

This was done, and the finely-ground surface was freely wetted, with the effect that it became far more luminous directly.

“Now, Tom,” said his uncle, “I’m going to show you something in reflection. The sun is not quite high enough for the speculum, so give me that piece of looking-glass.”

This was handed to him, and he held it on high, so that the low-down sun shone into it, and a reflection was cast from it back upon the wall just above the window.

“See that?”

“Yes, uncle. Done that many a time. Used to call it making jack-o’-lanterns.”

“Well, that is the effect of a reflection from a flat or plane surface; the rays of light strike back at the same angle as they hit the surface. Now then, I’ll show you what happens from a curved surface.”

He passed the sponge rapidly over the ground speculum again, so as to glaze it – so to speak – with water, raised it upon its edge with the carefully-ground face directed at the window just as the sun rose high enough to shine in; and then by turning the great mirror slightly, the light reflected from it struck upon the wall at the side of the window.

“Now, Tom, what do you see?”

“A round spot of light about as big as a two-shilling piece,” said the boy.

“Yes; all the rays of light which fall upon our mirror, gradually drawn together to where they form an image of the sun. It is only dull, my boy, but so far finely perfect, and we can say that we have gone on very successfully.”

As he spoke he laid the mirror down upon its back.

“Is that all you are going to do?” asked Tom.

“Yes; I can test it no better till it is more advanced, my boy. It may seem a little thing to you, but it is enough to show me that we may go on, and not begin our work all over again. Now for a good turn until breakfast-time. Two good hours’ work ought to produce some effect.”

The lower disc, now become convex, was wetted and lightly touched over with number five emery, which seemed soft enough for anything; the well-advanced mirror was turned over upon it, fitting now very closely, and with the sweet morning air floating in from the pine-woods, and the birds singing all around, the monotonous task went on with its intermissions till Uncle Richard gave the final wash off, and said – “Breakfast!”

They were so far advanced now that Tom was as eager to recommence as his uncle, and by that evening so much progress had been made that the setting sun was made to shine in upon it, to be reflected back in a bright spot on the wall without the aid of water; while two evenings later, when the great round glass was stood all dry the polish upon it was limpid, and seemed to be as pure as could be. There was not the faintest scratch visible, and Tom cried in triumph —

“There, now it is done! Oh, uncle, it is grand!”

“Grand enough so far, my boy. We have succeeded almost beyond my expectations; but that is only the first stage.”

“First – stage?” faltered Tom, looking at his uncle aghast.

“Yes, boy; we have succeeded in making a beautiful spherical concave mirror, which could be of no use whatever for my purpose.”

“Then why did we make it?” cried Tom. “For practice?”

“No, boy; because it is the step towards making an ellipse, or, as they call it when shaped for a reflecting telescope, a parabola. You know what an ellipse is?”

“Gooseberry,” said Tom bluntly.

“Gooseberry-shaped,” said his uncle. “Well then, what is a parabola?”

“One of those things we used to learn about in geometry.”

“Good. Well, to-morrow we must begin polishing, or rather I must, to turn our glass from a spherical-curved mirror into a parabola.”

“You’ll let me help, uncle?”

“As much as I can, my boy; but the amount I have to polish off, in what is called figuring, is so small that it requires the most delicate of treatment, and first of all we have to prepare a small polisher to work by hand.”

This was formed of lead in the course of the next day – a nearly flat but slightly convex disc, with a handle upon its back, and when made perfectly smooth it was covered with hot pitch, which, as it cooled, was made to take the exact curve of the nearly finished mirror, by being pressed upon it, the pitch yielding sufficiently for the purpose.

This done the pitch was scored across and across, till it was divided into squares, with little channels between them, so that the polishing powder and water might run freely between; then a final pressure was given upon the mirror and the implement was left to harden till the next day.

“Now for a few hours’ polishing,” said Uncle Richard the next morning, as he took up the curved pitch tool and moistened it, no longer with emery, but with fine moistened rouge; “and if I am successful in slightly graduating off the sides here, and flattening them in an infinitesimal degree, we shall have a good reflector for our future work.”

But upon testing it the result that evening was not considered satisfactory. There were several zones to be corrected.

It was the same the next day, and the next. But on the fourth Uncle Richard cried “Hold: enough! I think that is as good as an amateur can make a speculum, and we’ll be content.”

That night Tom slept so soundly that he did not dream till morning, and then it was of the sun resenting being looked at, and burning his cheek, which possessed some fact, for the blind was a little drawn on one side, and the bright rays were full upon his face.

“All that time spent in making the reflector!” thought Tom; “and all that work. I wonder what the next bit will be.”