They went down; the place was duly locked up, Tom having refrained from making any allusions to the speculum, and the work on hand, feeling as he did that his cousin would look upon it with a contemptuous sneer. Then the keys were returned to the house, and as the two lads stood in the hall they could hear the invalid talking very loudly to Uncle Richard, evidently upon some subject in which he took interest, and Sam laughed.
“What is it?” said Tom, staring.
“The gov’nor. Hear him? He has forgotten how bad he is. No groans now. Come on.”
Tom felt disgusted. He had often noticed the same thing, and formed his own conclusion; but it annoyed him to hear his cousin holding his father’s weakness up to ridicule; and he followed Sam out into the garden, and from thence along the sandy lane, thinking what a long time it would be till Monday, when the visitor would return to town.
They had not gone far along the edge of the pine-wood, when all at once a dog leaped out, to begin hunting amongst the furze and brambles, and dart in again.
“What’s he after?” cried Sam.
“Rabbits.”
As Tom spoke, his cousin struck a match to light a fresh cigarette; and as he lit up, he became aware of the fact that the long slouching figure of Pete Warboys was there by a tree, watching his act with profound interest.
Sam uttered a low laugh full of contempt, as he noticed the lad’s eager gaze, and after sending a curl of smoke floating upon the air, he jerked the wax-match from him for a few yards, to fall beneath some old dead furze.
“Have one, joskin?” he said.