the damp path, where it had evidently been trampled in and then picked out.
Tom felt certain now; and just then the little gate swung to, giving a bang which brought the yawner to the doorway in the person of the big lad who had shouted after Uncle Richard on the afternoon of Tom’s first arrival, and next morning had been caught poaching. In fact, there was a ferrets’ cage under the window with a couple of the creatures thrusting out their little pink noses as if asking to be fed.
The boys’ eyes met, and there was no sleepiness in the bigger one’s eyes as he caught sight of the screw in Tom’s hand.
“Here!” he cried, rushing at him and trying to seize the piece of iron; “what are you doing here? That’s mine.”
“No, it isn’t,” cried Tom sturdily. “How did it come here?”
“What’s that to you? You give that here, or it’ll be the worse for you.”
“Where did you get it?” cried Tom.
“It’s no business of yours,” cried the lad savagely. “Give it up, will yer.”
He seized Tom by the collar with both hands, and tried then to snatch away the screw, but Tom held on with his spirit rising; and as the struggle went on, in another minute he would have been striking out fiercely, had not there been an interruption in the arrival of the old woman with the newly-filled kettle.
“Here, what’s this?” she croaked, in a peculiarly hoarse voice; and as Tom looked round he found himself face to face with a keen-eyed, swarthy, wrinkled old woman, whose untended grey hair hung in ragged locks about her cheeks, and whose hooked nose and prominent chin gave her quite the aspect of some old witch as fancied by an artist for a book.
“Do you hear, Pete, who’s this?” she cried again, before the lad could answer. “What does he want?”
“Says that old iron screw’s his, granny.”
“What, that?” cried the old woman, making a snatch with her thin long-nailed finger at the piece of iron Tom held as far as he could from his adversary.
She was more successful than the lad had been, for she obtained possession of it, and hurriedly thrust it into some receptacle hidden by the folds of her dirty tea-leaf-coloured dress.
“Mine!” she cried, “mine! Who is he? Want to steal it?”
“Yes. D’yer hear? Be off out of our place, or I’ll soon let you know.”
“I shall not go,” cried Tom, who was now bubbling over with excitement. “You stole the iron from our place – from the mill last night.”
The old woman turned upon him furiously.
“The mill,” she cried; “who pulled the poor old mill down, and robbed poor people of their meal? No corn, no flour. I know who you are now. You belong to him yonder. I know you. Cursed all of you. I know him, with his wicked ways and sins and doings. Go away – go away!”
She raised her hands threateningly, after setting down the kettle; and Tom shrank back in dismay from an adversary with whom he could not cope.
“Not till he brings out the iron he came and stole,” cried Tom.
“Stole? – who stole? What yer mean?” cried the lad. “Here, let me get at him, granny. He ain’t coming calling people stealers here, is he? It’s your bit o’ iron, ain’t it?”
“Yes, mine – mine,” cried the old woman; “send him away – send him away before I put a look upon him as he’ll never lose.”
“D’yer hear? you’d better be off!” cried the lad; and, completely beaten, Tom shrank away, the old woman following him up, with her lips moving rapidly, her fingers gesticulating, and a look in her fiercely wild eyes that was startling. He was ready in his excitement to renew his struggle with the lad, in spite of a disparity of years and size; but the old woman was too much, and he did not breathe freely till he was some distance away from the cottages, and on his way back to Heatherleigh.
The first person he encountered was his uncle, who was down the garden ready to greet him with —
“Morning, Tom, lad; I’m afraid you were right about the iron.”
“Yes, uncle; and I found who stole it. I traced it to one of the cottages,” and he related his experience.
“Ah!” he said; “so you’ve fallen foul of old Mother Warboys. You don’t believe in witches, do you, Tom?”
“No, uncle, of course not; but she’s a horrible old woman.”
“Yes, and the simple folk about here believe in her as something no canny, as the Scotch call it. So you think it was Master Pete Warboys, do you?”
“Yes, uncle, I feel sure it was; and if you sent a policeman at once, I dare say he would find the bag of iron.”
“Hardly likely, Tom; they would have got rid of it before he came there if I did send one, which I shall not do.”
“Not send – for stealing?”
“No, Tom,” said Uncle Richard quietly. “Police means magistrates, magistrates mean conviction and prison. Master Pete’s bad enough now.”
“Yes, uncle; he poaches rabbits.”
“I dare say,” said Uncle Richard; “and if I sent him to prison, I should, I fear, make him worse, and all for the sake of a few pieces of old iron. No, Tom, I think we’ll leave some one else to punish him. You and I are too busy to think of such things. We want to start upon our journey.”
“Are we going out, uncle?” said Tom eagerly.
“Yes, boy, as soon as the great glass is made: off and away through the mighty realms of space, to plunge our eyes into the depths of the heavens, and see the wonders waiting for us there.”
Tom felt a little puzzled by Uncle Richard’s language, but he only said, “Yes, of course,” and did not quite understand why Master Pete Warboys, who seemed to be as objectionable a young cub as ever inhabited a pleasant country village, should be allowed to go unpunished.
That day was spent in the mill, where the carpenters were working away steadily; and as the time sped on, the wooden dome-like roof was finished, the shutter worked well, and a little railed place was contrived so that men could go out to paint or repair, while at the same time the railings looked ornamental, and gave the place a finish. Then some rollers were added, to make the whole top glide round more easily; and the great post which ran up the centre of the mill was cut off level with the top chamber floor, and detached from the roof.
“That will be capital for a stand,” said Uncle Richard; “and going right down to the ground as it does, gives great steadiness and freedom from vibration.”
A few days more, and white-washing and a lining with matchboard had completely transformed the three floors of the mill, a liberal allowance of a dark stain and varnish giving the finishing touches, so that in what had been a remarkably short space of time the ramshackle old mill had become a very respectable-looking observatory, only waiting for the scientific apparatus, which had to be made.
The next thing was the clearing out of the yard, where, under David’s superintendence, a couple
