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Updated: June 19, 2025
But his walk on that golden orange sunset evening had nothing whatever to do with his uncle, for, as soon as he reached the bend where the road began to slope, he struck off to the left in among the trees, trying hard to follow exactly the same track as that taken by Pete Warboys when he was pursued.
Then from the bubbling up of his spirits consequent upon that feeling of release as from a burden which had come over him, Tom set off running at first gently, then as hard as he could go, till at a turn of the lane he caught sight of Pete Warboys prowling along with his dog a couple of hundred yards away.
"Nay, nay, I'll hold no tongue," cried Mother Warboys. "He's a wicked man-witch, and allays doing evil and making charms." "Shot me with a big gun, granny." "Hold thy tongue, boy. It's come to him at last it's come to him at last. I always telled ye that he was a bad, wicked one. Now he's punished." "Oh dear me! I cannot put up with this," muttered the Vicar.
"That was some 'un artful, sir, and he got in." "Slipped in descending inside, and dragged the speculum on the floor," said Uncle Richard, frowning. "Now the question is, who was it?" "Ah, who was it, sir?" said David. "Arn't such a great many folk in Furzebrough, and I should say as it lies between Parson Maxted and Pete Warboys, and it warn't parson, 'cause of the boots."
"And you did not know anything about it, Pete?" said Tom one day, as he sat beside the lad in Mother Warboys' cottage, while the old woman kept on going in and out, muttering to herself, and watching them uneasily.
"That's right; and in five minutes, when we are out of the cutting, you can see Heatherleigh in the opening between the two fir-woods." "That's your house, uncle?" "Yes, my lad that's my house, where I carry on all my diabolical schemes, and perform my incantations, as old Mother Warboys says. You didn't know what a wicked uncle you had." "No, sir," said Tom, smiling.
Tom did not go far though without stopping, for he had aimed to reach the pit into which he had fallen, and here he stood gazing down, evidently puzzled, for there was something particular about the place which attracted him; while, to increase his interest, all at once there was a rustling noise, and Pete Warboys' long lean dog thrust out its head from the side hole beneath the fir-tree roots, which hung out quite bare, looked up, saw who was gazing down, turned, and thrust out its long bony tail instead.
"Cousin Sam!" mentally exclaimed Tom, and his face flushed. "Beg pardon, sir; can I have a word with you?" came in a loud, decisive, military way. "Why, it's Pete Warboys!" cried Tom. "Yes, all right; I'll come down," and he went below to where the sergeant stood, drawn up stiff, well set-up, and good-looking, waiting for the summons to enter.
"I don't want you to get into rows with Master Pete Warboys. Insolent young rascal!" Tom looked at his uncle inquiringly. "That's the pest of the village, Tom. Nice young scoundrel. An idle dog, who has had a dozen places and will not stay in them, though he has no Cousin Sam to quarrel with." Tom winced, for the words were a decided hit at him.
"You're a nice ornament for the home of a simple country gentleman. But Mr Maxted says you gave him a thorough thrashing. Did you? Here, let's look at your knuckles." Tom slowly held out his hands. "Oh yes," said his uncle, nodding. "There's no mistake about that. And so you are going to make a model boy of Pete Warboys, eh?" "I thought I'd try, uncle," said Tom bitterly.
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