“I beg pardon, sir,” said a pleasant voice; “but would you mind having a bell made to ring right in here?”
“No, Mrs Fidler,” said Uncle Richard; “we will lay down iron pipes underground to make a speaking-tube, so that you can call when you want me. What is it—lunch?”
“Lunch, sir!” said Mrs Fidler; “dear me, no; the dinner’s waiting and getting cold.”
“Bother the old dinner!” thought Tom.
“Come, my lad, we must eat,” said Uncle Richard, with a smile. “We shall not finish the telescope to-day.”
Chapter Twelve.
“Now then, we’ll begin,” said Uncle Richard; “and the first thing is to make our mould or gauge, for everything we do must be so exact that we can set distortion at defiance. We must have no aberration, as opticians call it.”
“Begin to polish the glass, uncle?”