That conversation took root in Tom's mind. He found himself thinking a
good deal about Pete Warboys and his devotion to his hideous old
grandmother; but it was hard work to believe that he had any of the good
in him that the Vicar talked about.
"Wonder whether he really has," Tom said to himself. "He might have."
The idea began to grow, and it spread.
"What would they say if I tried to alter him, and got him to turn into a
decent chap?"
He laughed at his own conceit directly after.
"He'd laugh at me too," thought Tom; and then something else took his
attention. But the idea was there, and was always cropping up. He
found himself talking to David about the lad one day when he was down
the garden, and David left off digging potatoes, took a big kidney off
one of the prongs of the potato fork, upon which it was impaled, split
it in two, and began thoughtfully to polish the tool with the piece he
retained.
"Do I think as you might make a decent chap out of Pete Warboys, Master
Tom, by being kind to him?"
"Yes."
"Do I think as you could make a silk puss out of a sow's ear, Master
Tom; and then cut this here yellow bit o' tater into sovereigns and put
in it? No, sir, I don't. Pete's a bad 'un, and you can't make a good
'un out of him."
"Not if he was properly taught?"
"Tchah! you couldn't teach a thing like him. It'd all run through him
like water through a sieve."
"But he has never been taught better."
"More was I, sir, but I don't go poaching, and stealing apples and eggs,
and ducks and chickens. Why, he makes that wicked old woman his grandam
fat with the things he steals and takes to her."
"Well, that shows there's some good in him," cried Tom, basing himself
upon the Vicar's speech.
"Master Tom," cried David, digging his fork down into the earth as if to
impale fierce, evil thoughts with its tines, "I'm surperrised at you.
Good! What, to go stealing an' portching to feed up a wicked old woman,
who spends all her time trying to curse. That's a shocking sentiment,
sir, and one that arn't becoming. It arn't good, and there arn't no
good in Pete Warboys, and never will be. He's a bad stock, and if you
was to take him and plant him in good soil, and then work him with a
scion took off a good tree, and put on some graftin' wax to keep out all
the wet and cold, do you think he'd ever come to be a decent fruit tree?
Because if you do, you're wrong. He never could, and never would, come
to anything better than a bad old cankering crab sort o' thing. No, my
lad, it would just be waste of time, and nothing else."
Still Tom did not feel at all convinced, but said no more.
David did though. It was pleasant to the back standing there, with one
foot resting upon the great five-pronged fork; and as he stood with his
fingers on the handle, he kept his left arm across his loins, and gave
Tom a cunning leer.
"It's all right, sir; taters won't hurt. Tatering's a thing you ought
to take your time over. The longer they lie out here without the sun on
them, the harder the skins will be, and the better they'll keep."
Tom stopped talking to David for some time longer, but his mind was not
bent upon the vegetable kingdom as represented by the tuber commonly
known as a "tater," but upon that portion of the animal kingdom familiar
to him as Pete Warboys.
Now it so happened that a couple of days later, Uncle Richard was going
out on business in the nearest town, leaving Tom to amuse himself as he
pleased.
"What shall I do, uncle?" said Tom. "Is there anything to grind?"
"No; you are not out enough in the open air. Go and get blackberries,
or mushrooms, or something to take you for a long walk. I shall be home
to tea."
Tom had been indoors so much, that at first he felt unwilling to go; but
that feeling soon wore off, and he started for a long jaunt out through
the firs, to the wild common-lands, where Nature revelled undisturbed,
and he knew that between blackberries and mushrooms he was pretty sure
of getting something to bring back in the basket Mrs Fidler supplied.
And so it proved. As soon as he was well through the fir-wood, where
the closely-growing reddish fir-trunks brought to mind Pete's
hiding-place, and consequently Pete himself, he found the broken ground
rich with brambles clustering over the furze-bushes, and hanging down in
the sandy hollows--hot, sunny spots, where the black fruit, rarely
gathered, hung in bunches, so that the basket soon began to grow heavy,
and a division had to be made with bracken fronds to keep them from
being mixed up with the mushrooms he gathered from time to time--not
big, flat, dark, brown-gilled fungi, such as grow in moist spots and
rich old pastures, but delicate, plump little buttons, which he found
here and there dotted about the soft velvety bits of sheep-cropped
pasture hidden among the clumps of furze.
Then there were other objects of interest: rabbits darted here and
there, skurrying into their sandy holes; he caught sight of a weasel,
which peered at him for a moment, and then glided away like a short
fur-clothed viper. Further on he came upon an olive-green,
regularly-marked snake, which seemed in no hurry to escape; another
slightly-formed reptile, nearly equal in thickness all along, and
looking as if made of oxidised silver, being far more active in its
movements to gain sanctuary under a furze bush. Soon after, while
reaching out his hand to get at a cluster of blackberries, he saw
beneath him in an open sunny patch, where all was yellow sand, a
curled-up grey serpent, not three feet from his extended hand. It was
thick and short, the tail being joined on to the body without the
graduation seen in the others, while the creature's neck looked thin and
small behind the flat, spade-shaped head.
"Asleep or awake?" Tom asked himself, as the reptile lay perfectly
motionless, with its curiously-marked eyes seeming dull, and as if
formed of the same material as the scales.
The lad drew his hand back, for there was something repellent about the
little object, and he knew at once that this was a dangerous little
viper.
His first instinct was to strike at it, but he had no stick; and he
stood perfectly still examining it, and comparing its shape and markings
with what he could recall of his readings respecting the adder.
There was no doubt about it. The little reptile was an adder, sunning
itself in its warm home; and that it was not asleep Tom soon saw, for
the curious tongue was rapidly protruded several times, flickering, as
it were, outside the horny mouth, which seemed to be provided with an
opening in front expressly for the tongue to pass through, while the
jaws remained closed.
"Wish I'd a stick," thought the boy, as the viper now slowly raised its
head; a couple of coils were in motion, and for the moment it seemed
about to glide away, but the head sank again, and once more the little
creature lay perfectly still.
"They're dangerous things, and the bite is very painful," thought Tom;
but he did not stir to get a stick to kill the reptile, for he was
interested in its peculiar form, and the dark, velvety markings along
its body, which glistened in the sun.
And there he stood, peering over into the little opening, in profound
unconsciousness that he was being silently stalked, till, just as he had
made up his mind to go to the nearest fir-tree and cut a stick, in the
hope of finding the adder still there on his return, there was a sharp
snuffling sound.
Tom started round, to find Pete's ill-looking dog close at hand, but
ready to spring away over the bushes as if expecting a blow.
Tom's next glance showed him the disturbed viper, with its head raised,
eyes glittering as if filled with fire, and its body all in motion.
Then it was gone; but another pair of eyes were gazing into his, for
Pete Warboys slowly raised himself from where he had crawled to the
other side of the furze clump.