of his cousin, and this little thing comforted him during the remainder of that unpleasant day.
Before the afternoon was half over Mr Brandon came to his door and called Sam, who went in, and then took his hat and went away, to Tom’s great relief, for it was far from pleasant to be sitting at a double desk facing one who kept on darting scowling looks full of threatenings.
An hour later Mr Brandon left, after sending Pringle upon some errand, and for the rest of the afternoon the boy had the office to himself.
Chapter Five
In due time Tom locked up the safe and strong-room, saw that no important papers were left about, and started for Mornington Crescent in anything but the best of spirits, for he did not look forward with any feeling of pleasure to his next meeting with his cousin. Upon reaching home he found from divers signs that company was expected to dinner; for the cloth was laid for five, the best glass was on the table, there were flowers and fruit, and sundry fumes from the kitchen ascended into the hall, suggesting extra preparations there as well.
Tom had hardly reached this point when his cousin came out of the library scowling.
“Here, bumpkin,” he cried, “you’re to look sharp and put on your best things. It’s not my doing, I can tell you, but the pater says you’re to come in to dinner.”
“Who’s coming?” said Tom.
“What’s that to you? Pretty cheeky that. I suppose you ought to have been asked whether we might have company.”
“Oh, no,” said Tom, good-temperedly; “I only wanted to know.”
“Did you? Well, you won’t know till dinnertime. Now then, don’t stand staring there, but go and wash that dirty face, and see if you can’t come down with your hands and nails fit to be seen.”
“Clean as ever yours are,” was on Tom’s lips; but he remembered his cousin’s trouble of that morning, pitied him, and felt that he had some excuse for feeling irritable and strange.
“Well, go on; look sharp,” said Sam, manoeuvring so as to get behind his cousin.
“All right; I’m going,” replied Tom, who was suspicious of something coming after his cousin’s promise of revenge; and he wanted to remain facing any danger that might be threatening. But he felt that he could not back away, it would look so cowardly, and, daring all, he went slowly to the pegs to hang up his overcoat.
“Get on, will you,” cried Sam; “don’t be all night. We don’t want to wait for you.”
“Oh, I shan’t be long,” said Tom quietly; “I’ll soon be down.”
He was on the mat at the foot of the stairs as he said this, conscious the while that Sam was close behind; and he was in the act of stepping up, when he received so savage a kick that he fell forwards on to the stairs, striking his nose violently, and creating a sensation as if that member had suddenly been struck off.
“You got it that time, did you?” said Sam, with a satisfied chuckle. “You generally play the wriggling eel, but I was too quick for you, my lad.”
Sam said no more, for his triumph was only short-lived. He was looking triumphantly at his cousin as the lad got up heavily, feeling his nose to find out whether it was there. The next instant Sam was feeling his own, for he had at last gone too far. Tom had borne till he could bear no more; and in the anguish of that kick he had forgotten company, dressing for dinner, everything but the fact that Sam was there, and quick as lightning he struck him full in the face.
This satisfied him – acting like a discharging rod for his electric rage?
Nothing of the kind: there was a supreme feeling of pleasure in striking that blow. It, was the outlet of any amount of dammed-up suffering; and seeing nothing now but his cousin’s malignant face, Tom followed up that first blow with a second, till, throwing his remaining strength into a blow intended for the last, it took effect, and Sam went over backwards, flung out his right hand to save himself, and caught and brought down a great blue china jar, which shivered to pieces on the floor, covering Sam with fragments, and giving him the aspect of having been terribly cut, for his nose was bleeding freely.
So was Tom’s, as he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass of the hall table, while his lip had received a nasty cut, and in the struggle the stains had been pretty well distributed over his face.
But he had no time to think of that, for the crash had alarmed those up-stairs as well as down, and hurrying steps were heard.
The first to arrive was the cook, who, on reaching the head of the kitchen stairs, uttered a kind of choking gasp as she saw Sam lying apparently insensible among the ruins of the china jar.
“Oh, Master Tom, what have you been and done?” she cried.
“Been and done?” came like an angry echo from the landing above, where Mr Brandon had arrived. But before he could say more there was a piercing shriek, he was pushed aside, and Mrs Brandon rushed down the remaining stairs crying wildly —
“Oh, my darling boy! my darling boy! He has killed him – he has killed him!”
She dropped upon her knees by where Sam lay, apparently insensible; but uttered a cry of pain and sprang up again, for the broken china was full of awkward corners.
“Oh, James! James! look what that wicked wretch has done!”
“Look, woman! Do you think I’m blind? That vase was worth fifty pounds, if it was worth a penny.”
“I – I wasn’t thinking about the ch-ch-ch-china,” sobbed Mrs Brandon, “but about my darling Sam. Oh, my boy! my boy! don’t say you’re dead!”
“Don’t you make an exhibition of yourself before the servants,” cried her husband angrily. “Here you, sir: I always knew that you’d make me repent. How came you to break that vase?”
“I didn’t, sir,” said Tom quietly; “Sam caught hold of it as he was falling.”
Sam was lying insensible the moment before, but this was reviving.
“I didn’t, father; he knocked me down, and then seized the vase and dashed it at me.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Mrs Brandon, as Sam lapsed into insensibility once more. “The wretch has had a spite against his cousin ever since he has been here. Oh, my darling, darling boy!”
Sam uttered a low groan which made his mother shriek and fling herself down by him again.
“Oh, Mary! cook!” she cried, “help – help!”
“Yes, mum,” said the former; “shall I bring a dustpan and brush, and take up the bits?”
“No, no! Water – sponge – help!”
“Indeed, indeed, I did not break the vase,” pleaded Tom, as his uncle suddenly caught him by the collar and drew a gold-headed malacca cane from the umbrella-stand.
“I’ll soon see about that,” said Mr Brandon, with a fierce drawing-in of the breath.
“Yes; beat him, beat him well, James, the wretch, the cruel wretch, and then turn him out of the house.”
“Don’t you
