"Master Tom, I'd be the last person in the world to find fault, or pick
people to pieces, and I'm sure master knows that, as it's his brother,
I'd do anything; but really, my dear, I don't think he's so bad as he
says."
"Do you think not, Mrs Fidler?"
"I feel sure not, my dear. Here has he been down here for three weeks
now, and the nursing up he's had is wonderful. You look at the beef-tea
he's had, and the calves'-foot jelly I've made, and the port wine he has
drunk, let alone the soles and chickens and chops he has every day."
"But what makes you think Uncle James is not so ill?"
"Because he eats and drinks so much, my dear. I think he's all right,
only got something on his mind."
"Well, I don't know," said Tom. "He says he's very bad. I must be off
now; it's time he went out in his bath-chair."
"Yes, my dear, it's wonderful what your uncle does for him, what with
the flys, and pony-carriages, and the invalid chair got down on purpose
for him. I only wish I had such a brother as master."
For Uncle James had come down ready to groan when he was helped out of
the fly, to sigh when he was helped off to bed, and call out when Tom
led him to his chair at meal-times. For as soon as he came down he had
attached himself to his nephew, and was never satisfied without the boy
was at his side.
"Your noo uncle seems to like you, Master Tom," said David one day.
"Yes; I wish he wouldn't be quite so fond of me," replied Tom. "He used
not to be in London."
But Tom's wishes were of no avail, for his uncle would hardly let him
quit his side; and when they were indoors he would sit and gaze
wistfully at the boy, and now and then whisper--
"Tom, my boy, I think I ought to tell you, that--"