“Stole?—who stole? What yer mean?” cried the lad. “Here, let me get at him, granny. He ain’t coming calling people stealers here, is he? It’s your bit o’ iron, ain’t it?”
“Yes, mine—mine,” cried the old woman; “send him away—send him away before I put a look upon him as he’ll never lose.”
“D’yer hear? you’d better be off!” cried the lad; and, completely beaten, Tom shrank away, the old woman following him up, with her lips moving rapidly, her fingers gesticulating, and a look in her fiercely wild eyes that was startling. He was ready in his excitement to renew his struggle with the lad, in spite of a disparity of years and size; but the old woman was too much, and he did not breathe freely till he was some distance away from the cottages, and on his way back to Heatherleigh.
The first person he encountered was his uncle, who was down the garden ready to greet him with—
“Morning, Tom, lad; I’m afraid you were right about the iron.”
“Yes, uncle; and I found who stole it. I traced it to one of the cottages,” and he related his experience.
“Ah!” he said; “so you’ve fallen foul of old Mother Warboys. You don’t believe in witches, do you, Tom?”
“No, uncle, of course not; but she’s a horrible old woman.”
“Yes, and the simple folk about here believe in her as something no canny, as the Scotch call it. So you think it was Master Pete Warboys, do you?”
“Yes, uncle, I feel sure it was; and if you sent a policeman at once, I dare say he would find the bag of iron.”