“Humph!” said Uncle Richard. “It looks as of one of you must be in fault.”
“I take my solemn—”
“Silence, sir! you have spoken enough. Tell me this, as the man I have always been a good master to, and have always trusted. I know it is a serious thing, but I want the simple truth. Did you have an accident, and break that glass?”
“I wish I may die this minute if I did, sir,” cried David; “and that’s an awful thing to say.”
“Thank you, David; I believe you,” said Uncle Richard quietly, and the gardener’s face glowed as he turned his eyes on Tom, and then frowned, and jerked his head, and seemed to say—
“Now out with the truth, my lad, like a man.”
Tom was darting back an angry look, when his uncle turned to him, with eyes that seemed to read him through and through.
“I thought it was your doing at first, Tom, in my vexation,” he said. “Then I suspected poor David here, very unwillingly. But you see we are at fault.”
“Yes, uncle,” cried Tom eagerly, for there was something in his uncle’s tone, stern as it sounded, that was like a friendly grasp of the hand, and turning towards him, in quite an excited burst, he cried, “Then you don’t think I did it?”
“Of course not, my boy. What have you ever done that I should doubt your word?”