“There’s nothing done without trying, mother,” continued Dick, who was excited now over his chase. “Try again, try again till you succeed’s the way. Now, you know, if I was to—was to—(Ah, gone again; but I’ll have you yet)—you see, I might—”
“Now, master, there he is,” whispered Jack; “you’ll have it now.”
“Yes,” said Dick, “I shall get it now. You see, mother, shoemaking and cobbling’s all very well, but it means starvation to us, though it’s a thing in common demand. If I could invent—(Ah! I shall have you directly).”
He went cautiously across the room.
“Invent a pair o’ boots as won’t never wear out, master,” whispered the boy. “Now look, master—there, on the wall!”
The buzzing had ceased, and all was very still in the low, shabby room, as the bluebottle settled on the centre of a figure in the common wall-paper; and Dick went forward, on tiptoe, while, somehow drawn into a keen interest in the pursuit, they knew not why, Mrs Shingle and Jessie still looked on.
Slowly and cautiously, as if determined to make up this time for his many failures, Richard Shingle advanced closer and closer, just as a ray of sunshine fell on the wall, making the fly, which was cleaning and brushing itself, stand out plainly before them all.
It was as if the capture of that fly had something to do with their future in life, and the activity that Dick threw into the pursuit was shared by all present.
Would he catch it? Would he fail?
That was the mental question asked, as he made a scoop of his hand, drew just within the required distance, paused for a moment, and then—