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Updated: June 21, 2025
"There you are, you see," cried the gardener triumphantly, "that's c'roborative evidence, and c'roborative evidence is what they make detective police on. It was Pete Warboys, sure enough." "I thought it must be, David." "Not a doubt 'bout it, sir. We've got him this time safe enough, and he'll be sent away for the job, and a blessing to Furzebrough, I say. But I'll try you again, sir.
"Oh no, nor yet water. It's a regular old-fashioned flour-mill with five sails. How shall you like that business?" Tom looked harder at his uncle. "Well, boy, do I seem a little queer? People down at Furzebrough say I am." "No, sir," said Tom, colouring; "but all this does sound a little strange. Do you really mean that you have a windmill?" "Yes, Tom, now. My very own, my boy.
He had taken nearly an hour to get over the last mile, after struggling hard during the first part of the night to get as far as possible away from Furzebrough, haunted as he was by the belief that the theft would be discovered before many minutes had passed, and that he would be pitched upon as the criminal.
For he had been compelled to rise on account of two or three business matters with which he wished to charge his son; and he told every one in turn that he was very much worse, and that he was sure Furzebrough did not agree with him; but he ate, as Tom observed, a very hearty breakfast all the same.
But he got over quite dry, and after a short walk on the level, began to mount the sandy hill which formed part of the way entering Furzebrough at the top end, and led him by the fork in the road down one side of which his father had steered the bath-chair, and plunged into the soft sand of the great pit.
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