“Break it?” cried the boy; “oh, it would be horrible. Why, we should have to make another, and go through all that again.”
“Yes, Tom, but we could do it. I know of a gentleman who made a hundred of these specula with his own hands. But there will be something more interesting for you to see to-morrow.”
“What, shall we get it done?”
“By no means; but first thing of all I must test it, and to do this easily, we must be up early when the sun is shining in at the east window of our workshop. Do you think you can call me by five?”
“I’m sure of it, uncle,” cried Tom.
Chapter Fifteen.
Tom kept his word, for he started into wakefulness in the grey dawn out of an uncomfortable dream, in which he had seen the unfinished speculum fall off the bench on to the stone-floor, roll like a wheel out of the door, down the slope to the gate, bound over, and then go spinning down the lane and across the green, straight for the ragstone churchyard wall, where it was shivered to pieces.
“Only a dream,” he said, as he leaped out of bed, ran to the window, and saw by the church clock that it was only half-past four.