Now he had never been down into the pit, and only once as far as the edge, into which he had peered from the road above, whence he had looked down upon a colony of martins darting in and out of their holes in the sand-cliff. He had determined to examine the place, but that morning he was compelled to hurry back to breakfast. Now he had to explore the depths of the pit in a very different mood; and he was not half-way down the slope when he found that the wheels had suddenly curved off, and then, from the marks on the smooth sand, it had evidently turned over. And there, sixty or seventy yards away, and fully a hundred feet below him, it lay bottom upwards, while away to its right sat its late occupant, making signs with his stick.
Tom did not attempt to go on down the roadway, which meant quite a journey, but began to descend at once, slipping, scrambling, falling and rolling over in the loose sand, which gave way at every step, and took him with it, till at last, hot and breathless, he reached the invalid’s side.
“Hurt, uncle?” he panted.
“Hurt, sir?” cried Uncle James angrily. “I’m nearly killed. I don’t think I’ve a whole bone left in my body. You dog! You scoundrel! You did it on purpose. You knew it was not safe to leave that miserable, wretched wreck of a thing. It was all out of revenge, and you wanted to kill me.”
“Oh no, uncle,” cried Tom, staring in astonishment at the vigour his uncle had displayed. For there was no moaning, no holding the hand to the breast, and complaining of shortness of breath, but an undue display of excitement and anger, which had made cheeks burn and eyes glisten.
“I’m very sorry, uncle; it was that young scoundrel’s fault.”
“I don’t believe it, sir. It was a trick. Disgraceful!”
“Wait a minute, uncle, and I’ll fetch the chair. I’ll get it here, and then help you up to the top before I take it up.”
“Fetch the chair!” stormed James Brandon. “It’s a wreck, sir; one wheel’s off, and the front one’s all bent sidewise. Here, give me your hand.”