Tom saw very little more of Pete Warboys. He had slipped away to the
fir-wood, and escaping all observation, went straight to the cave; but
there was neither boy nor dog, and he left disappointed.
Three days passed, and he did not go out, feeling perfectly unfit to be
seen.
Then he began to grow uneasy, and wondered whether Pete was ill from the
beating he had received, and the dog dead.
But the time went on, and he heard that Pete had gone away. David had
told Mrs Fidler, and she bore the news to Tom.
"And it's a great blessing, my dear," she said, "for he was a very bad,
wicked boy, and I don't know what he didn't deserve for beating you so
dreadfully."
"Oh, but he was as bad, or worse," said Tom.
"He couldn't have been, my dear. Look at your poor face even now."
"No. Bother! I don't want to look at my face for ever so long yet,"
replied Tom. "Perhaps it's a good job though that he has gone."
Then the winter came, with glorious, clear, starry nights, when the cold
was forgotten, and Tom had his share of feasting upon the wonders of the
heavens with the small telescope. Now it would be an hour with the
great Nebula in Orion, then one with the wondrous Ring Nebula. Another
night would be devoted to the double, triple, and quadruple stars, those
which, though single to the naked eye, when viewed by the help of the
glass showed that they were two, three, or four, perfectly separate.
Then the various colours were studied, and diamond-like Sirius was
viewed, as well as his ruby, topaz, sapphire, and emerald companions in
the great sphere. The moon was journeyed over at every opportunity,
with her silvery, pumice-like craters, and greyish-bottomed ring-plains,
surrounded by their mighty walls of twelve to seventeen thousand feet in
height. Tycho and Copernicus, with their long silvery rays; brilliant
Aristarchus; dark, deep Plato; the straight valley, the so-called seas,
the smooth, round, smaller craters, isolated Pico, the ridges, and the
wildly-rugged battlements upon the terminator--all were scanned in turn,
with Tom's thirst increasing every time he looked.
For there was always something new to see, as well as plenty of
surprises, when some meteor suddenly shot across the field of the
telescope. But Uncle Richard said--
"Wait till we get the big one done!"
Saturn became a favourite object with Tom, who was never weary of gazing
at the bright ring of light spread around the planet, which he could
almost fancy he saw spinning as it glided across the field of the glass.
Jupiter and his four moons, the former dull and scored with rings, the
latter brilliant specks, had their turn; and soon books, which he had
before looked upon as tedious and dry, became of intense interest; but
Uncle Richard said that they must have a more perfect plane mirror.
Then came a bright wintry day, when Tom was out having a brisk run, and
to his surprise he came upon Pete Warboys, who made a rush into the
woods and disappeared, leaving his dog behind.
"Then he has come back," said Tom to himself; and he stared at the dog,
which stood looking at him--and the whole scene of the fight, and then
the surgical operation upon the dog's nose, came back.
"Then you did get well again, old chap," said Tom sharply.
That was enough: the dog rushed forward, barking loudly, danced round
him, and then bounded up the bank leading into the wood, where it turned
to stand wagging its long thin tail, whisked round again, after giving
another bark, and then bounded after its master.
"Come, I've made friends with him," said Tom, "anyhow." And though
disappointed by Pete's return after a long stay with some gipsy-like
relatives of his grandmother, he could not help feeling glad that the
dog displayed some gratitude for what had been done.
"Pete Warboys has come back, David," cried Tom, hurrying down the garden
as soon as he had ended his walk.
"Yes, bad luck to him, sir. I was going to tell you. I heared of it
'bout an hour ago. Been a-gipsying, I expect, with some of their
people, who've got a door-mat van, and goes about with a screwy old
horse. We shall be having some nice games again."
"Not after the fruit, David."
"Well, no, sir, 'cause there arn't none. It'll be eggs and chickens,
and the keepers round about 'll know my gentleman's here. Say, Master
Tom?"
"Yes."
"Thought you was going to make a noo chap of him?"
"How could I when he wasn't here?"
"No, course not; but your time's come now, sir. What you've got to do
is to sarve him as you do your specklums. You grind him down--there's
plenty on him--and then polish him into a fresh sort of boy."
The gardener leaned upon his spade and chuckled.
"Ah, you may laugh, David," said Tom; "but he might have been a decent
lad if he had had a chance."
"Not he, sir. Mr Maxted tried, but it was the wrong stuff. Look here,
sir, when you makes a noo specklum, what do you do it of?"
"Glass, of course."
"Yes, sir, clear glass without any bubbles in it. You don't take a bit
of rough burnt clay; you couldn't polish that. He's the wrong stuff,
sir. Nobody couldn't make nothing o' him but a drill-serjeant, and he
won't try, because Pete's too ugly and okkard even to be food for powder
and shot."
"I don't know," said Tom, as he thought of the scene with the dog.
"And I do, sir. You mark my words--now Pete's back there's going to be
games."
But the days glided by; and Tom had so much to think of that he saw
nothing of Pete Warboys' games, and he could hardly believe it possible
when summer came again.