A few days more, and white-washing and a lining with matchboard had completely transformed the three floors of the mill, a liberal allowance of a dark stain and varnish giving the finishing touches, so that in what had been a remarkably short space of time the ramshackle old mill had become a very respectable-looking observatory, only waiting for the scientific apparatus, which had to be made.
The next thing was the clearing out of the yard, where, under David’s superintendence, a couple of labouring men had a long task to cut up old wood and wheel it away, to be stacked in the coach-house and a shed. The great millstones were left—for ornament, Uncle Richard said; and as for the old iron, he said dryly to Tom, as they stood by the heap—
“Seems a pity that so many of these pieces were too heavy to lift.”
“Why; uncle? Two men can lift one.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Richard; “but one boy can’t, or it would all have been cleared away for me.”
Tom looked in the dry quaint face, which appeared serious, although the boy felt that his uncle was in one of his humorous moods.
“There must be a strange fascination about stealing, Tom,” he continued, “for, you see, quite half of that old iron is gone.”
“More,” said Tom.
“Yes, more, my boy. Strange what trouble rogues will take for very little. Now, for instance, I should say that whatever might have been its intrinsic worth, whoever stole that old iron could not possibly altogether have sold it for more than five shillings, that is to say, about one shilling per week.”
“Is it five weeks since the men began to pull down, uncle?”