for getting over the ground than two; for the next minute he was close up, snapping at the boy’s legs, leaping at his hands, and sending him into a profuse perspiration.
“Ciss! fetch him down, boy!” came from a distance, and the dog responded by a bark and a snap at Tom’s leg, which nearly took effect as he ran with all his might, and made him so desperate that he suddenly stopped short as the dog made a fresh snap, struck against him, and then from the effort rolled over and over on the ground.
Before it could gather itself up for a fresh attack Tom, in his desperation, stooped down and picked up the nearest thing to him – to wit, a good-sized fir-cone, which he hurled at the dog with all his might. It was very light, and did not hit its mark, but the young poacher’s dog was a bad character, and must have known it. Certainly it had had stones thrown at it before that morning, and evidently under the impression that it was about to have its one eye knocked out or its head split, it uttered a piercing whining cry, tucked its thin tail between its legs, and began to run back toward its master as fast as it could go, chased by another fir-cone, which struck the ground close by it, and elicited another yelp.
Tom laughed, and at the same time felt annoyed with himself.
“Why didn’t I do it at first?” he said; “and that isn’t the worst of it – that fellow will think I ran away because I was afraid of him.”
This last thought formed the subject upon which Tom dwelt all the way back, and he was still busy over an argument with himself as to whether he had been afraid of the young poacher or no, when, after missing the way two or three times among the firs, he caught sight of the church clock pointing to a quarter to eight.
“Just time to get in,” he said, as he increased his pace; and then – “Yes, I suppose it was afraid of him, for he is a good deal bigger and stronger than I am.”
“Hullo, Tom! been for a walk?” saluted him, as he was hurrying at last along the lane which divided his uncle’s grounds from the new purchase.
Tom looked up quickly, and found that Uncle Richard was looking over the wall of the mill-yard.
“That’s right,” continued his uncle. “What do you think of the place?”
“Glorious!” said Tom.
“Hungry?”
“Terribly, uncle.”
“That’s right. Come along, Mrs Fidler’s waiting for us by now.”
Chapter Ten
Directly after breakfast Tom followed his uncle to the coach-house, and from there up a ladder fastened to the side into the loft, where he looked around wonderingly, while his companion’s face relaxed into a grim smile.
“It was originally intended for botanical productions, Tom,” he said; “for a sort of hortus siccus, if you know what that means.”
“Hortus– garden; siccus– I don’t know what that means, uncle, unless it’s dry.”
“That’s right, boy. Glad you know some Latin beside the legal. Dry garden, as a botanist calls it, where he stores up his specimens. But only a few kinds were kept here: hay, clover, oats, and linseed, in the form of cake. Now, you see, I’ve turned it into use for another science.”
“Astronomy, uncle?”
“To be sure; but it’s very small and inconvenient. But wait till we get the windmill going.”
“Is this your telescope?” cried Tom.
“Yes, Tom; but it’s too small. You’ll have to work hard on my big one.”
“Yes, uncle,” said Tom, with quiet confidence, as he eagerly examined the glass with its mounting, and the many other objects about the place, one of which was a kind of trough half full of what seemed to be beautifully clear water, covered with a sheet of plate-glass.
“There, as soon as you’ve done we’ll go to the mill, for I don’t want to lose any time.”
“I could stay here for hours, uncle,” said Tom. “I want to know what all these things are for, and how you use them; but I’m ready now.”
“That’s right. The men are coming this morning to begin clearing away.”
“So soon, uncle?”
“Yes, so soon. Life’s short, Tom; and at my age one can’t afford to waste time. Come along.”
Tom began thinking as he followed his uncle, for his words suggested a good deal, inasmuch as he had been exceedingly extravagant with the time at his disposal, and much given to wishing the tedious hours to go by.
“Here they are,” said Uncle Richard; for there was the sound of a horse’s hoofs, and the crushing noise made by wheels in the lane.
“But I thought you were going to make the place into an observatory yourself, uncle, with me to help you?”
Uncle Richard smiled.
“It would be wasting valuable time, Tom,” he said, “even if we could do it; but we could not. I’ve thought it over, and we shall have to content ourselves with making the glass.”
On reaching the mill-yard it was to find half-a-dozen people there with ladders, scaffold-poles, ropes, blocks, and pulleys. There was a short consultation, and soon after the men began work, unbolting the woodwork of the sails, while others began to disconnect the millstones from the iron gearing.
This business brought up all the idlers of the village, who hung about looking on – some in a friendly way, others with a sneering look upon their countenances, as they let drop remarks that contained anything but respect for the owner of the place. But though they were careful not to let them reach Uncle Richard’s ears, it seemed to Tom that more than once an extra unpleasant speech was made expressly for him to hear; and he coloured angrily as he felt that these people must know why the mill was being dismantled.
The work went on day after day, and first one great arm of the mill was lowered in safety, the others following, to make quite a stack of wood in a corner of the yard, but so arranged that one side touched the brickwork, as there was no need to leave room now for the revolution of the sails.
By this time the building had assumed the appearance of a tower, whose sides curved up to the wooden dome top, and the resemblance was completed as soon as the fan followed the sails.
Meanwhile the iron gearing connected with the stones had been taken down inside; then the stones had followed, being lowered through the floors into the basement, and from thence carefully rolled, to be leaned up against the wall.
“Hah!” said Uncle Richard, “at the end of a week,” as he went up to the top-floor of the mill with his nephew.
“Is it only a week, uncle?” said Tom. “Why, it seems to me as if I had been here for a month.”
“So long and tedious, boy?”
“Oh no, uncle,” said Tom confusedly. “I meant I seem to have been here so long, and yet the time has gone like lightning.”
“Then you can’t have been very miserable, my boy?”
“Miserable!”
