"I don't see that it matters."
"No, I don't know that it does." Kitty agreed, as usual coming round to her brother's way of reasoning. "How crossly he spoke to Snip, didn't he? Poor little Snip, he meant no harm."
Meanwhile, Tim having reached the corner of the street, looked back and saw that the Glanvilles were not going home, but had turned down a side road leading in the opposite direction. A sudden, malicious thought flashed through his mind, which caused him to turn and hastily retrace his footsteps. On his arrival at his uncle's house he went immediately to the back garden, and, armed with a spade, he mounted the ladder, which he had left against the wall, and peered cautiously around the Glanville's garden. No one was in sight, and, being assured that he was unobserved, Tim leaned over the wall, the better to view the box beneath; and then, with the aid of the spade, he tried to lift the lid, but failed in the attempt. However, it did not matter what was inside, he told himself; if it was something breakable so much the better.
For a few minutes Tim hesitated, his conscience telling him he was about to act very wrongly; but the remembrance of the grievance, he believed he had every right to cherish against Kitty and Bob nerved him to do that which he afterwards bitterly repented having done. And, with a vigorous shove from the spade, he overturned the box with a jerk, descended the ladder hastily, and hurried back to the house, his feelings those of mingled fear and exultation—fear lest he might have been seen after all, and exultation because he believed he had now scored off the next door children.
When uncle and nephew met at the mid-day meal that day, it occurred to Mr. Shuttleworth to ask Tim how he had spent the morning.
"Oh, I've been in town," Tim answered, flushing, "and—and in the garden. I don't think much of the shops here, Uncle John; they're not to be compared with ours in Dublin."
"No, of course not. You must remember this is only a small country town—not to be compared in any way to 'Dublin's fair city,'" Mr. Shuttleworth replied with a smile. He was a tall man with stooping shoulders, and near-sighted eyes which peered at Tim very kindly through spectacles, and he was very clever; but with all his cleverness, he did not understand children, which was a pity for Tim. "Have you spoken to the young folks next door yet?" he inquired.
"Oh, yes," assented Tim, trying to respond in a careless tone. "I've spoken to them; but I don't think much of them, Uncle John."
"Dear me. Why not?" There was surprise in Mr. Shuttleworth's voice.
"They're stuck-up," Tim asserted, after a moment's reflection.