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Updated: May 4, 2025
"Well, boy, it isn't Mrs Fidler's money. That must be exact." Bang, hang, hang at the gate, and then "Anybody at home?" came faintly. "Why, it's Mr Maxted, uncle. May I go and speak to him?" "Yes, you can let go now. Tell him to come up." Tom left the telescope and went to the shutter, which he threw open, and stepped out into the little gallery. "Good-morning. Your uncle there?" "Yes, sir.
But he did a great deal; and in addition soups and jellies, and sundry other preparations of Mrs Fidler's, till he was able to go about very slowly with his arm in a sling, to where he could seat himself in some sandy hollow, to bask in the sun along with his dog.
"Thunderbolt, mum; I saw the flash," cried David; and as Tom still held up his uncle's head, and knelt there confused, half-stunned and helpless, Mrs Fidler's voice rose again. "Quick! help them before the place falls. Master! poor master! Mr Maxted Master Tom!"
It is not clear exactly where the Hudson's Bay post was built, but it is said to have rather faced the Assiniboine than the Red River, perhaps near where Notre Dame Avenue East, or the Hudson's Bay stores is to-day. It was probably built a few years after Fort Gibraltar, and was called "Fidler's Fort."
He had time for no more. A bell was being rung somewhere below, and he hurried down, eager to conform to his uncle's wishes. "This way, Tom," greeted him; and his uncle pointed to the hat-pegs. "You'd better take to those two at the end, and stick to them, for Mrs Fidler's a bit of a tyrant with me with us it will be now.
"Yah!" cried David, as if still at a great distance, but his words sounded with peculiar distinctness through the metallic ringing. "Shootin'! It was a thunderbolt struck the mill." "Oh, what is the matter?" came now in Mrs Fidler's voice.
Oh, I say; arn't you getting jolly civil!" "Hush!" whispered Sam excitedly. "Don't make that noise. Some one will hear." "Yah! There's no one to hear! The old man's gone out, and old Mother Fidler's fast asleep, and snoring by this time." "But there's he," whispered Sam. "What, young Tom Blount? Yah! Not him: he won't come." "Where's the ladder?" whispered Sam, in agony.
Bill Spurey, wet your whistle, and just clear the cobwebs out of your throat. Here's more 'baccy, Short." "Well reeled off, Billy," cried Jemmy Ducks, finishing with a flourish on his fiddle, and a refrain of the air. I don't think we shall meet him and his dog at Fidler's Green heh!" "No," replied Short, taking his pipe from his lip.
"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."
There was always a line or two anxious-looking lines upon Mrs Fidler's forehead; now five or six appeared, and her eyebrows suddenly grew closer together, and her lips tightened into a thin line, as she took off the cover, and then went in a very dignified way from the room.
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