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Chapter Forty Five

Sam Brandon was more asleep than awake when he made his way into Westhall Station, and took a ticket for town. He had taken nearly an hour to get over the last mile, after struggling hard during the first part of the night to get as far as possible away from Furzebrough, haunted as he was by the belief that the theft would be discovered before many minutes had passed, and that he would be pitched upon as the criminal. For though the struggle had been in the dark, and he had not spoken a word, he felt sure that Tom must have known him, and that some one would start very soon in pursuit. Hence, with his brain full of handcuffs, prison cells, magistrates, and other accessories of the law, he had toiled on through the night until utterly exhausted.

The early morning train soon came gliding into the station, and Sam took his place, trying in vain to look careless and indifferent, and as if he were occupied over his ordinary affairs; but it could not be done. He looked dusty as to his boots and trousers; there was a bloodshot appearance in his eyes; his cheeks were hollow, and his lips feverish and cracked.

Then the other passengers kept on staring at him, and the more so because he looked uneasily at them. In fact, as one passenger said to himself, he looked “as if he been up to no good.”

The drowsy sensation which had made him feel as if walking in a dream had now completely passed away, and though he rested his head in a corner, and, after buttoning up his jacket tightly, tried to sleep, he could not lose consciousness, but sat there with every joint aching, and a miserable feeling of weariness in his back, listening to the rattle of the train, which kept up what sounded like some weird tune, always beginning and never ending.

There came minutes when he felt as if he were going to be seriously ill, for his head throbbed, and there was a burning sensation at the back of his eyes, while the events of the past night seemed as if they had happened a long time back.

Once when the train stopped – though stop it did at every station – Sam closed his eyes tightly and shammed sleep, feeling convinced that when the carriage door was opened, he would hear a rough voice ordering him to get out, consequent upon his description having been telegraphed all along the line; and then the door was opened and banged to again after a man had spoken in a rough voice, but only said jocularly —

“Got room for a little ’un?”

He then squeezed in close to Sam, and proved to be a huge fellow of about twenty stone.

Every one in the compartment laughed but Sam, who went through the same agony again and again, till the tickets were taken at Vauxhall, when the collector looked so much like a detective that the mental suffering was worse than ever.

Waterloo at last. He was parched with fever; his throat felt dry, and there was hot coffee waiting at the buffet, such as would relieve the faintness from which he suffered; but he dared not stop to partake of it. He hurried out of the great station, and walked fast across the bridge, and only began to feel more safe when he was amongst the crowd going and coming in the busy streets.

At last, after dodging in and out in all directions to baffle pursuit, he jumped into a cab to be taken home, but began to feel the next moment that if he were pursued it would be known where he had taken refuge.

Taken altogether, Sam Brandon began to taste very bitterly the agonies of those who break out of straight paths, never having realised till then how thorny the wrong course was, and how deep the pits and chasms in the way.

The cabman looked at him peculiarly when he got in, but that was nothing to the grin which overspread his face when the lad alighted and went up to the front door; while upon his summons being answered, the maid saluted him with the expressive words – “Oh, lor!”

“Is my father down yet?” asked Sam.

“No, sir, and it’s lucky for you as he ain’t. My! he would kick up a fuss, if he see you such a sight after being out all night.”

“Bah!” ejaculated Sam, and he ran up-stairs to his room.

“Bah! indeed,” cried the indignant girl; “serve you right if I was to tell master what time you come home. But I won’t.”

And there was no need. For Sam had hardly shut himself in before there was a hand upon the lock of the door, and his father entered in his dressing-gown, looking haggard and pale, consequent upon a sleepless, anxious night.

He closed and locked the door, before turning excitedly to his son.

“Well?” he whispered in a husky voice.

“Got back,” said Sam laconically.

“Yes; and you have not succeeded?” cried James Brandon.

Sam was silent.

“I say, you have not succeeded?”

“I heard what you said, father,” replied Sam surlily.

“I knew it would be so,” cried his father. “It’s all because you would be so rash, and ready to believe that you know everything. Now if you had gone down as I advised, on a visit, everything would have been as easy as a glove. You could have stayed there two or three days with your cousin now your uncle is in London.”

“Oh, then you knew Uncle Richard was in London?”

“Of course I did, or I shouldn’t have let you go, sir. And then you could have come back with what we wanted decently, and not come crawling into the house as if you had been found out committing a theft, and the detectives were after you.”

Sam gave a sudden jump and glanced at the door, but laughed it off directly with a sneer.

“Don’t be absurd, father,” he said. “Of course I only went on a very honest mission – for you.”

It was James Brandon’s turn to wince now, and as he saw his son’s sneering laugh he turned upon him angrily.

“It’s my own fault,” he cried, “for trusting such an idiot. I might have known what would be the consequences; but I thought you were growing up into a man whom I could trust with important business.”

“Legal business,” said Sam sneeringly.

“Yes, sir, legal business,” cried James Brandon. “You’re worse than your cousin.”

“Ever so much,” retorted Sam. “Well, dad, have you done?”

“Yes, sir, I have done – done with you too. You might have saved me thousands, instead of – ”

“How do you know I haven’t?” said Sam sourly.

His father’s mouth opened, and a curious change came over his countenance.

“Why, Sam, my boy!” he panted. “You don’t mean to say – ”

“That the idiot has been of some use to you? Yes, I do. There, when you’ve done rowing me let’s get the business over, for I’m sick of it. I want to go to bed.”

“Then – then – you’ve – you’ve – ” stammered James Brandon.

“Succeeded? – of course I have,” said Sam coolly, as he lay back in a chair, heavy-eyed, nervous, and utterly exhausted by his night’s work. “If I wasn’t so tired I should have something more to say.”

“My dear boy!” cried James Brandon effusively; and his son uttered a low, unpleasant laugh. “Sam, you have the – the papers?”

“Yes.”

“Quick then – give them to me.”

Sam thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his closely-buttoned coat, and glancing in sidewise, he drew out a folded paper.

“That it?” he said coolly, as he handed it to his father, watching him keenly the while.

“That? Absurd!” said James Brandon, taking it and tossing it back. “The agreement for letting a house. You don’t mean to say – ”

Sam interrupted him.

“Try that then,” he said.

But again his father tossed the paper away with an angry ejaculation, while his face grew more haggard and anxious-looking.

“That’s it then,” said Tom. “I had to grab them in a hurry, and get away.”

“That is not the packet,” cried his father. “There were four deeds tied up with green silk ribbon. I explained to you exactly what they were like. Surely you had more common-sense than to think these things were what I wanted!”

“Don’t I tell you I had to take them in a hurry?” said Sam, smiling at his father’s anxious face, as he kept one hand still in his breast, and now with a triumphant air flourished out a great cartridge paper envelope. “There,” he cried; “will that do then?”

“No, no, no,” said James Brandon angrily; “four deeds tied up with green silk ribbon, I tell you;” and he waved the thick envelope aside, but Sam still held it out.

“Don’t you be in such a hurry, gov’nor,” he cried. “That’s the packet, only perhaps the old man put the deeds in the envelope. Look inside.”

Sam’s father snatched the packet from his son’s hand, dragged out its contents, which were tied together with green ribbon indeed, and proved to be written in a round legal hand; but as he read the endorsements one by one, he threw them contemptuously down with a groan.

“What, ain’t those right?” cried the lad, speaking anxiously now.

“Right? No,” cried his father. “There, I see you are playing with me. Where is the right packet?”

“Right? The right packet? I made sure that was it. I opened that old bureau of his, and these deeds and things were all together.”

“Oh, Sam! Sam!” groaned his father.

“It was quite dark, you know, and I had to work by feel till I got the drawers open, and then I lit a match or two, so as to make sure which was the packet I wanted. There were the four things together tied up with green silk ribbon, and I had no time to read them even if I’d wanted to; but I felt so sure it was not necessary.”

“It was madness. You ought to have looked carefully,” said James Brandon.

“Yes; that sounds all right, but it’s a wonder I got them. I only just had time to stuff them into my pocket when he came, and then – ”

“He came! Who came?” cried James Brandon.

“Tom; and a pretty fight I had for it before I could get away.”

“Then he caught you steal – caught you seeking for those papers?” cried James Brandon wildly.

“Of course he did; I told you so.”

“Then it’s all over. He has told your uncle by this time.”

“Not he. How could he know? Didn’t I tell you it was dark as pitch?”

“What? Then you think he does not know who it was?” cried James Brandon, with the air of a man catching at a straw to save himself.

“Sure of it,” said Sam coolly, as he opened one of the papers and began reading – “‘Instructions for grinding and polishing specula.’”

He opened another.

“‘The various modes of mounting telescopes.’”

Throwing this down, he took up a third paper, and read —

“‘Elutriation as applied to Emery and other Powders.’”

Lastly he took up the fourth, and read half to himself —

“‘The method practised by Monsieur Foucault in silvering the surfaces of glass specula.’ I seem to have dipped into the wrong drawer, dad,” he said coolly.

James Brandon groaned.

“I made so sure that I had got the right things. They do look like legal papers, don’t they?”

Sam’s father made no reply, but began walking up and down the room.

“What does he mean by tying up his stupid recipes like that!” said Sam angrily.

“Exposed yourself to all that risk, and for nothing,” cried James Brandon.

“Don’t say ‘yourself,’ dad,” cried Sam softly. “It was your doing; you sent me.”

James Brandon was silent for a time.

“You are sure he did not know you?” he said at last.

“Of course I am. Don’t I tell you it was dark as pitch?”

“Then how do you know it was Tom who came?”

“Who else was likely to come?”

“Of course – of course,” murmured James Brandon; “who indeed?”

“Besides, that other chap was outside, and helped me with the ladder.”

James Brandon gave quite a jump.

“That other chap?” he cried. “You don’t mean to say any one else saw you?”

“Yes, a fellow I saw when I was down there before; he came and caught me trying to get in.”

James Brandon threw out his hands, and walked up and down his son’s bedroom gesticulating.

“It’s all over,” he cried wildly; “it’s all over. I’m a ruined man. My position as a solicitor gone; my character destroyed; the money I had saved swept away; and all through the stupidity of my own son.”

Sam sat back watching his father curiously, as he paced about the place, addressing, as it seemed to him, the walls, the windows, and at times the pieces of furniture. He repeated the same things over and over again as he bemoaned his ill-fortune, and the way in which his plans had been brought to naught. Reproach after reproach was piled upon Sam, but the father did not glance at his son, who still watched him, but with eyes that grew fixed and dull-looking, till all at once the lids began to fall, opened up again, fell lower, opened again, and then went right down, and were not raised.

For Sam was utterly exhausted by his many hours’ exertions, and his father’s monotonous, droning voice, as he went on bemoaning his fate, after irritating him for a time, and making him ready to make retorts, gradually began to have a soothing effect, making him feel drowsy; then more drowsy, and at last, when James Brandon paused before the chair in which the lad lay back, and gazed full in his face, saying —

“What I want to know, sir, is, how you could be such an obstinate idiot as to persist in going your own way, after all my strong, carefully-thought-out advice? – what I want to know, I say, is – why, he’s asleep!”

James Brandon was quite right – his son had dropped off into a deep, dreamless sleep, and it is probable that if he had shouted in his ear instead of speaking in a subdued, hurried voice, he would not have succeeded in awaking him to the sense of anything he said.

Chapter Forty Six

Uncle Richard came back late the second night after the robbery, tired out, and glad to go to bed, so that nothing was said respecting the events at the observatory till the next morning at breakfast.

“Hah! no place like home, Mrs Fidler,” he exclaimed. “London hotels are all very well, but I’m always glad to get back to Heatherleigh.”

“It does me good to hear you say so, sir,” said the housekeeper, “for I’m always afraid, sir, that when you come back from the grand places you’ve been at you’ll be dissatisfied.”

“No fear of that, Mrs Fidler,” said Uncle Richard merrily. “Well, Tom, my lad, I need not ask how you are; you look quite hardy.”

“There, Mrs Fidler,” said Tom, “you hear that?”

“Yes, my dear, I hear that,” said the housekeeper, compressing her lips; “but you can’t deceive me. You know you were ill.”

“I know you wanted to dose me with prune tea,” cried Tom hastily; and he made a grimace.

“Well, sir, who are you that you are not to be dosed with prune tea?” said Uncle Richard, with a mock-serious look. “Mrs Fidler has on more than one occasion tried to play the doctor’s part with me.”

“And I’m sure, sir, I meant it for the best,” said the housekeeper, drawing herself up.

“Of course you did, Mrs Fidler,” said Uncle Richard. Then, to change the conversation – “Well, Tom, how about the plane mirror; have you got one perfect yet?”

“Perfect, uncle?” said Tom, smiling. “I’m afraid not.”

“So am I, my lad; but have you made one as perfect as possible?”

“Yes, uncle, I’ve done that,” said Tom, who, ever since he rose that morning, had been in a state of mental perturbation, eager to tell his uncle about the breaking into the mill, but fully determined not to say a word – for several reasons – until they were alone.

“Well, let’s hear what you did.”

“Exactly as you told me, uncle. I took the three pieces of thick plate-glass, and ground them together, changing their positions over and over again, and ended by polishing them one over the other till I think they are as flat as they can possibly be.”

“That remains to be proved, Tom – in the telescope. One of the three ought to be good enough for us; but we shall see.”

Then the breakfast went on, with Uncle Richard spending a good deal of time over his letters; and at last Mrs Fidler rose and left the room, while Tom felt his cheeks grow warm with excitement.

The time had come for speaking about the robbery, and the question was how to begin. For the boy felt that he had been left in charge of the observatory, and that his uncle might fancy that he had neglected something in the way of securing the place. How then to begin?

While he was mentally seeking for the words connected with the first plunge, the difficulty was solved, the announcement coming out quite naturally, just as Tom felt that he must plunge at once into the story of how he had – in his ignorance – become once more poor.

“What was the matter with you, my boy?” said Uncle Richard, suddenly dropping the letter he was reading, and looking searchingly at his nephew.

“Matter, uncle?”

“Yes, when Mrs Fidler wanted to physic you. There must have been something wrong or she would not have noticed it. Too much fruit?”

“Oh no, uncle,” cried Tom eagerly. “She saw how dull and tired I looked after that night in the mill.”

“What? you never were so foolish as to stop up all night at work over those plane mirrors?”

“Oh no, uncle,” cried Tom, who was now well started; and he plunged at once into his narration, from the looking out of the window to his return to bed.

“Tut – tut – tut!” ejaculated Uncle Richard, frowning, and looking very grimly at his nephew, who, as soon as he had run down, changed from a state of eager excitement to one of depression, and felt quite chilled by the reception his news had met with.

“You don’t think I ought to have done more, do you, uncle?” he faltered.

“More? Goodness gracious, boy, what more could you have done? You behaved very pluckily, but it was a great risk to run. Then you have not made it known?”

“No, uncle. David knows, of course, but I gave him strict orders not to say a word.”

“And he has not spoken?”

“No, uncle, I think not.”

“Good! But you have not spoken to Mr Maxted?”

“No, uncle. I thought you ought to be the first to hear.”

“Quite right, Tom. I am glad that in so serious a matter you kept your own counsel. I don’t think David would speak. Eh? Yes, Mrs Fidler, we have quite done. Come along, Tom. We’ll go over into the workshop.”

Uncle Richard led the way, gazing keenly up at the little gallery as they crossed the mill-yard.

“Tut – tut – tut!” he ejaculated. “Why, Tom, you might have broken your neck.”

He said no more till they were up in the laboratory, where he examined the bureau, frowning heavily the while, and noting how easily, by the insertion of a flat iron tool, the woodwork could be heaved up, so as to allow the locked drawers to be wrenched open; and there were the marks of chisel or screw-driver plainly showing where they had indented the wood.

Then they went up into the observatory, and the great shutter was examined.

“Hah! I see you have locked the stable door, Tom,” exclaimed Uncle Richard.

“Stable door, uncle?”

“Yes, now the steed is stolen. That shutter did not close securely. Any one could pass a hand beneath, and then slip the bolt.”

“Yes, uncle; and so I put a screw in there to hold it fast till you came back.”

“Quite right. I’ll have it done properly. We’ll secure it with a piece of sheet-iron at the bottom. Come along down.”

They went back into the laboratory below. Uncle Richard making a few remarks about the trap-door, and the struggle at the steps, asking a few questions too about the chase up and down, and round the workshop, before he settled himself in an easy-chair, leaving Tom standing by the table.

“Nice fellow you are, sir,” he said severely; “I left you in charge for a few days, and you get up an affair like this ready for me when I come back.”

“Uncle!” cried Tom indignantly.

Uncle Richard’s countenance relaxed.

“Sit down, Tom,” he said, “and let’s talk like business men. That’s right. You did well in keeping the matter perfectly private; but now let’s have everything open and clear as the day. This was nothing more nor less than a burglary, and you surprised the burglar or burglars. Which was it, singular or plural?”

“I only saw – I mean felt – one, uncle,” said Tom uneasily; “but there must have been two.”

“Why?”

“Because there must have been some one outside to lift the ladder up again.”

“After you had laid it down. Of course.”

“And I heard a whispering too.”

“Must have been at least two then, Tom. Well, that’s something. Now then for the next. You had a regular struggle with the burglar – a big strong fellow of course, or he would not have got the better of you.”

“Oh no,” said Tom quickly; “not very big or strong. I held my own with him pretty well, but he had the best of it.”

“You could not see his face?”

“No, uncle.”

“But you formed an idea of who it was?” Tom was silent.

“Some one who must have known the place, eh?”

“Yes, uncle, I think he must have known the place.”

“Such a fellow as our amiable young poaching friend, Pete Warboys, eh?”

“David says he is sure that it was Pete.”

“Why does he say that?”

“Because Pete would know where the ladder was kept, and get it into the yard.”

“To be sure; no one more likely,” said Uncle Richard, watching his nephew keenly, and then opening and shutting two or three of the drawers as if waiting for Tom to go on speaking.

But Tom remained silent.

“But you don’t think it was Pete Warboys, eh?”

Tom still remained silent, and his uncle drew out the drawer in which the deeds had been placed.

“Come, my boy, I must cross-examine you,” continued Uncle Richard. “Out with it. There is always to be perfect confidence between us two.”

“Yes, uncle,” cried Tom passionately, “but don’t make me speak. It is only a suspicion, and I may be wrong.”

“I’ll tell you if you are, Tom, my boy. You heard what I said – there must be perfect confidence between us two. When that ceases, which I think will never be, you and I will part.”

“But it seems so hard, so brutal to say such a thing when perhaps it is all imagination, and due perhaps to one’s not liking some one else.”

“True, Tom,” said Uncle Richard gravely; “but we must have out the truth. Come, I’ll help you, for I’m afraid I think as you do – you fancy it was your cousin Sam?”

Tom nodded quickly.

“Why?”

Tom tightened his lips as if saying, “I won’t speak,” but his uncle’s eyes were searching him, and in a slow, faltering way he said —

“I don’t think Pete Warboys would break in here to steal valuable papers, uncle.”

“No; it hardly seems likely, Tom. Go on.”

“And – and I thought – must I go on, uncle?”

“Yes, boy, to the bitter end,” said his uncle sternly.

“I thought, uncle, that as Uncle James had given me those papers, which made me rich instead of him, my cousin Sam had felt disappointed, and come down here at night, asked Pete Warboys to help him – ”

“But he did not know Pete Warboys.”

“Only a little, uncle; he had seen him. He might have asked him to get him the ladder.”

“Might, Tom; but that looks doubtful. Well?”

“And then, as I could not find out that anything else was stolen – or taken,” said Tom, correcting himself, “except those papers, I thought that it must have been Cousin Sam.”

“Nothing else stolen but those papers? – you mean the packet you saw me put in the drawer here?”

“Yes, uncle, in the big envelope. There was nothing else taken but them, and some of the other papers.”

“Sure, Tom?”

“Yes, quite sure, uncle; and this made me think that nobody else was likely to take them – nobody else would care to do such a thing. But, uncle – ”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think I mind much. I never expected to have any money, except what I could earn for myself; and if it was Sam – ”

“What, who came and broke open this bureau like any burglar would?”

“Yes, uncle,” said Tom sadly; “if you too really think it was Sam.”

“Stop a moment, boy. Had your cousin any notion as to what was kept in that bureau?”

“I’m afraid so, uncle. When he came down here, and I took him about and showed him the place, I remember he asked me what was kept there, and I said you kept your valuable papers there.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Uncle Richard.

“But if you do think it could have been Sam – ”

“Stop again, sir,” cried Uncle Richard; “are you keeping anything back? Are you sure that you did not recognise him by some word, or when you were near the window? Did you not get a glimpse of his face?”

“No, uncle,” said Tom firmly. “I never once had the slightest idea as to whom it could be, till I began to think about it after the struggle, and he had got away. Then I’m afraid I made sure it was he.”

“Humph!”

“But if you think it was he, uncle – ”

“I do think it was, Tom. I feel sure of it, my boy.”

“But you won’t punish him, uncle?”

“I have punished him, Tom.”

“What, you knew, and you have done this?” cried Tom excitedly, as he sprang from his seat, and caught his uncle by the arm.

“I have punished him, Tom, and most severely.”

“Uncle! I’d sooner have given up the money a dozen times over. I wish I’d never known of it. Think what it means. Why, a magistrate would treat him like a thief.”

“Well, he is a thief,” said Uncle Richard sternly.

“Yes; but oughtn’t we to hide it from the world, uncle? He is only a boy, and it will spoil his whole life. I’d give the money, I say, a dozen times over sooner than he should be punished. Boys are stupid and thoughtless, uncle; they often do things in haste that they would not do if they considered first, and such a little thing sometimes means so much afterwards.”

“Was this a little thing, Tom?”

“No, uncle,” cried Tom piteously; “but it would be so horrible. He is my own cousin.”

“Yes, Tom, and my own brother’s son.”

“Yes, uncle; and he never liked me, and I never liked him, but I can’t stand by and let you punish him without saying a word.”

“Then you mean to tell me, Tom, that you would let him go scot free, sooner than have him punished for trying to take again what is your heritage?”

“Yes, uncle, I would,” cried Tom excitedly, “every penny, sooner than he and my aunt and uncle should come to disgrace.”

“But they behaved badly to you, sir.”

“Perhaps I deserved some of it, uncle.”

“Then you must have been a bad one, Tom.”

“Yes, uncle, I’m afraid so. But you will let him off? Perhaps he’ll repent and send the papers back.”

“The same way as foxes do with the farmers’ chickens,” said Uncle Richard, smiling.

“Uncle, it is too serious to laugh at,” cried Tom indignantly. “Sam Brandon is your own nephew.”

“Yes, Tom, and all you say is in vain. I have punished him severely for a cruel, cowardly robbery.”

“But you’ll do no more, uncle?” cried Tom. “Humph! Well, no, I think I may say that I shall do no more. Possibly I shall never see him again.”

“Ah, I don’t mind that, uncle,” cried Tom anxiously. “But tell me – how – what you have done. I would not speak to anybody, and kept it all so quiet till you came, uncle, because of that. You – you haven’t put it in the hands of the police?”

“How could I, my boy, when I knew nothing of the robbery until you told me this morning?”

“But you said you had punished him, uncle.”

“So I have – cruelly.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Tom, with his brow puckered-up, and some of the old ideas about his uncle’s sanity creeping back into his mind.

“I suppose not, Tom; but I have punished your cousin all the same – unconsciously of course.”

“I wish you’d tell me what you mean, uncle,” said Tom, with his face one mass of puckers and wrinkles.

“I will, Tom. No; I would never be the man to bring the law to bear on my own brother or nephew, though on your account I should have taken pretty stern measures to enforce restitution of any papers that had been stolen; but I have, without knowing it, allowed your cousin alone, or perhaps incited, to come down here in my absence, and cunningly attempt to get those deeds back into his or his father’s possession.”

“Oh, uncle! you don’t think – ”

“Silence. I don’t want to think or surmise, Tom. I only want for you and me to be left alone to our own devices, and you keep interrupting me when I want to explain.”

Tom made a deprecating gesture.

“Unconsciously, I say, I have punished your cousin, for he came down here and stole some worthless papers.”

“No, uncle,” said Tom sadly; “the deeds are gone.”

“Yes, my boy,” said Uncle Richard; “on second thoughts I felt that it was my duty to place them in a safe depository, and I took them up to London when I went, and saw them locked up in the deed-box with my other valuable papers, and then placed in the strong-room at my lawyer’s, where they are out of every would-be scoundrel’s reach.”

“Uncle!” cried Tom excitedly.

“Well, Tom?”

“I am glad.”

“That the papers are safe?”

“Bother the old papers!” cried Tom; “that you have punished him like that.”

Then the lad burst into a fit of peculiar laughter, and became calm the moment after.

“Come on, uncle,” he cried; “I want to show you the three plane mirrors that I’ve ground.”

“Beauties, Tom,” said Uncle Richard a few minutes later. “Tom, my lad, you’re my dear sister’s son, and the queerest boy I ever met.”

“Am I, uncle?” said Tom dryly.

“Yes, my lad.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not a bit, Tom. I’m glad.”