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Updated: May 9, 2025
But Tom was not quite comfortable at first, for Mrs Fidler seemed to be looking very severely at him, as if rather resenting his presence, and sundry thoughts of his being an interloper began to trouble the lad, as he wondered how things would turn out. Every now and then, too, something was said which suggested an oddity about his uncle, which would give rise to all sorts of unpleasant thoughts.
I've lit the kitchen fire, for poor cook is in hysterics, and Maria is sobbing and crying quite helpless." "How silly!" muttered Tom. "Where's uncle?" "Here I am. Ready?" For Uncle Richard appeared with a ready-lit lantern and the keys. "We shall have to go out by the front door, Tom; the wind's worse on the other side of the house." "I'm ready, uncle." "Pray take care, sir," said Mrs Fidler.
"Mrs Fidler could put me right." "Yes, my dear," cried the housekeeper; "but you never will let me." "Well, who's going to take prune tea or brimstone and treacle because he has been knocked down?" "There, Mrs Fidler, you hear," said Uncle Richard; "we have had a narrow escape, but I don't think any of us are much the worse. We only want rest. Take the couch, Maxted, and lie down."
Tom did not see how Mrs Fidler could be at peace if the corn was ground on the basement-floor of the mill, but he said nothing. "Now we'll go down," said Uncle Richard. "I'm more than satisfied. I'll have two or three stout fellows to lower down the stones; the rest we will do ourselves."
It was about a fortnight after the accident, that Tom was returning one day from Mother Warboys' cottage, where the old woman had sat scowling at him, while Pete lay back perfectly helpless, and smiled faintly at his visitor, when he met Mrs Fidler by the gate looking out for him. "There's some one come from London to see you, Master Tom." "From London?" "Yes, sir; he said his name was Pringle."
"What will uncle say?" groaned Tom; and he forgot Mrs Fidler, who came up to his door to see if he had returned, and receiving no answer to her knock, she walked in, and then said a good deal, but it was while working hard to alleviate the boy's pain. In the midst of it all Uncle Richard came home. "Now for it," said Tom bitterly. "What will he say?"
Fidler or the correctness of his instruments. for I see that Arrasmith in his late map of N. America has laid down a remarkable mountain in the chain of the Rocky mountains called the tooth nearly as far South as Latitude 45°, and this is said to be from the discoveries of Mr.
"Ugh!" ejaculated Tom, with a grimace. " Or a cupful of prune tea." "That sounds better," said Tom, smiling. Mrs Fidler shook her head. "I shouldn't like to deceive you, Master Tom," she said, "because though prune tea sounds very nice, you don't taste the French plums I make it of, but the salts and senna in which the prunes are stewed.
Fidler, the superintendent of the Wesleyan missions in Barbadoes. Mr. F. resides in Bridgetown, and preaches mostly in the chapel in town. He has been in the West Indies twelve years, and in Barbadoes about two years. Mr. F. informed us that there were three Wesleyan missionaries in the island, besides four or five local preachers, one of whom is a black man.
But it was all real, and he looked with delight at the snug little room, whose window opened upon the garden, from which floated scents and sounds to which he had long been a stranger. "Look sharp and wash your hands, boy, the dinner-bell will ring in ten minutes, I see, and Mrs Fidler is very particular. Will your room do?"
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