“Yes, uncle; coming,” cried Tom.
“And do, pray, pray tell him all the truth, my dear,” whispered Mrs Fidler.
“Ugh! you stupid old woman,” exclaimed Tom to himself, as he ran out into the hall, got his cap, and followed his uncle, who was walking sharply on toward the mill-yard, with the keys hanging from his hand.
“And he’s thinking all the time that I did it,” muttered Tom. “He might have waited.”
“Pst! pst!” came from among the bushes, and the boy turned sharply, to see David working his arms about like an old-fashioned telegraph.
“Can’t stop. What is it?” said Tom roughly.
“I ain’t going to stop you, Master Tom; but you go and tell the truth.”
“Bah!” cried Tom.
“The truth may be shamed, sir, but can never be blamed,” said the gardener oracularly.
“Get out, you topsy-turvy old humbug,” cried Tom wrathfully. “Think I don’t know you?” and he ran on, and caught up to his uncle as he was passing through the yard gate.