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Tom gave his uncle a comical look, and then shyly held out his hand, which was gripped in a clasp which made him wince. There was a heavy post one morning at breakfast, and as Mrs Fidler glanced at the letters, she screwed up her face and turned her eyes upon Tom, to shake her head as much as to say, "What work, what work!" For to write a letter was a terrible effort to Mrs Fidler.
Meanwhile the scientific people had adjourned to the cottage, where warm water and clothes-brushes did a good deal to restore them to their former state, while a cup of tea hurriedly prepared by Mrs Fidler did something toward soothing their shattered nerves. "But really, sir, I think you ought to let me send over to Buildston for Doctor Ranson." "Not for me, Mrs Fidler," said Uncle Richard.
"Mrs Fidler has on more than one occasion tried to play the doctor's part with me." "And I'm sure, sir, I meant it for the best," said the housekeeper, drawing herself up. "Of course you did, Mrs Fidler," said Uncle Richard. Then, to change the conversation "Well, Tom, how about the plane mirror; have you got one perfect yet?" "Perfect, uncle?" said Tom, smiling. "I'm afraid not."
"What have I done, sir?" exclaimed the housekeeper. "Say workshop, and leave laboratory alone." "Certainly, sir, if you wish it." "That's right. Well, Tom, what are you waiting for?" "I thought, if you wouldn't mind, I should like to help you unpack the boxes." "Oh, by all means, boy. Come along; but I'm going to have a look over the windmill first my windmill, Mrs Fidler, now. All settled."
This morning the fidler came to Squire Allworthy for a warrant, and the wench was brought before him. The squire demanded of her who was the father? But she pertinaciously refused to make any response. So that he was about to make her mittimus to Bridewell when I departed."
But as he took them from the nail in the little hall, he felt that if he opened the door, the shooting of the bolts would alarm Mrs Fidler and the maids, so he stole back to his room, closed the door, listened again at his window, and became sure that some one was in the mill-yard. "It's Pete Warboys," he said to himself as he listened. "What mischief is he after now?"
Then came the sound of hurrying feet, and as Tom looked up, to see the ceiling above him come crumbling down, more questioning voices were heard outside, and Pete's voice rose again. "They shot me with a big gun they shot me with a big gun." "Master! master!" shrieked Mrs Fidler. "Oh, there you are! Oh, Master Tom, don't say he's dead." Tom shook his head feebly; he could not say anything.
I don't want to hear these things, but people will talk to David and cook and Jenny, and it all comes to me." "Well, I want to hear. Out with it." "I do wish you wouldn't ask me, sir." "Can't help it, Mrs Fidler. Come." "Bromley the baker told cook, sir, that if you were going to grind your own flour, you might bake your own bread, for not a loaf would he make of it." "Glad of it.
"Quite right," said Uncle Richard. "So take your chair there, Tom, and keep to it. What's for dinner? We're hungry." Mrs Fidler smiled as she took her place at the head of the table, and a neat-looking maid-servant came and removed the covers, displaying a simple but temptingly cooked meal, to which the travellers did ample justice.
Tea at six punctually. Don't be late, or Mrs Fidler will be angry." "I don't like to contradict you, sir," said the housekeeper, smiling gravely; "but as Master Tom is to form one of the household now, he ought, I think, to know the truth." "Eh? The truth? Of course. What about?" "Our way of living here, Master Tom," said the housekeeper, turning to him.
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