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"And never give me so much as a shilling, Master Tom, and me been twice to fetch that fly. If he wasn't your uncle, sir, I'd call him mean. But what did you say? I'm to fetch the chair, as is lying broken at the big sand-pit?" "Yes, in Mr Maxted's cart." "Did it fall over?" "Yes, right over, down the slope from top to bottom." "And him in it, sir?" "Yes."
"Nay, sir, I don't," cried the old fellow indignantly; "and don't you go saying such things." "Ha ha ha!" laughed Tom. "Ah, you may laugh, sir; but Parson Maxted's handsome young Jarsey cow did die." "Well, all cows die some time," cried Tom. "Ay, sir, that's true; but not after old Mother Warboys has stood cussin' for ever so long about the milk." "And did she?"
But still his brain kept on actively at work, forming little pictures of the events of the afternoon, while his thoughts in his mental musings took the form of short, terse sentences. "I hate fighting. That's making friends with him. He'll always hate me now. Mr Maxted's all wrong. But Pete does love his dog. How queer about that sixpence." "Good-afternoon, Tom."
I feel ten times as eager now Mr Maxted's plums have been stolen;" and, punctual to the moment, he stole down the garden, walking upon the velvety lawn, and advancing so silently upon David, that the gardener uttered a cry of alarm. "Quite made me jump, Master Tom, coming on me so quiet like." "I thought he might be hanging about," whispered back Tom. "Going to watch from the same place?"
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