The Vast Abyss. Fenn George Manville

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 of labouring men had a long task to cut up old wood and wheel it away, to be stacked in the coach-house and a shed. The great millstones were left – for ornament, Uncle Richard said; and as for the old iron, he said dryly to Tom, as they stood by the heap —

      “Seems a pity that so many of these pieces were too heavy to lift.”

      “Why; uncle? Two men can lift one.”

      “Yes,” said Uncle Richard; “but one boy can’t, or it would all have been cleared away for me.”

      Tom looked in the dry quaint face, which appeared serious, although the boy felt that his uncle was in one of his humorous moods.

      “There must be a strange fascination about stealing, Tom,” he continued, “for, you see, quite half of that old iron is gone.”

      “More,” said Tom.

      “Yes, more, my boy. Strange what trouble rogues will take for very little. Now, for instance, I should say that whatever might have been its intrinsic worth, whoever stole that old iron could not possibly altogether have sold it for more than five shillings, that is to say, about one shilling per week.”

      “Is it five weeks since the men began to pull down, uncle?”

      “Five weeks yesterday; and that amount could have been earned by an industrious boy in, say, four days, and by a labouring man in two. I’m afraid, Tom, that dishonesty does not pay.”

      David, who was close by, helping to load the remainder of the old iron into a cart, edged up to Tom as soon as Uncle Richard had gone into the mill.

      “Strikes me, Master Tom,” he said, “as I could put my hand on him as stole that there old iron.”

      “Who do you think it was, David?”

      “Not going to name no names, sir,” said David, screwing up his lips, and tightening a roll of blue serge apron about his waist. “Don’t do to slander your neighbours; but if you was to say it was old Mother Warboys’ hulking grandson, I wouldn’t be so rude as to contradick you; not as I say it is, mind you, but I’ve knowed that chap ever since he was a dirty little gipsy whelp of a thing, and I never yet knowed him take anything as was out of his reach.”

      Tom laughed.

      “But I just give him fair warning, Master Tom, that if he comes after my ribstons and Maria Louisas this year – ”

      “Did he come last year?” said Tom eagerly.

      “Never you mind that, Master Tom. I don’t say as he did, and I don’t say as he didn’t; but I will say this, and swear to it: them Maria Louisas on the wall has got eyes in their heads, and stalks as does for tails, but I never see one yet as had legs.”

      “Nor I neither, David,” said Tom, laughing.

      “No, sir; but all the same they walked over the wall and out into the lane somehow. So did lots of the ribstons and my king pippins. But tchah! it’s no use to say nought to your uncle. If somebody was to come and steal his legs I don’t b’lieve he’d holler ‘Stop thief!’ but when it comes to my