“Course, sir, if he comes. But we’ll chance that, and if he don’t, why we shall know as my pears is safe.”
Chapter Twenty Four.
Tom Blount did not make a very good tea that evening, for he was excited by thoughts of the coming watch.
He was not in the least afraid, but his face felt flushed, and there was a curious tingling in the nerves which made him picture a scene in the garden, in which he was chasing Pete Warboys round and round, getting a cut at him with the stick from time to time, and at last making him turn at bay, when a desperate fight ensued.
It seemed a long time too till half-past eight, and though he took up a book of natural history full of interest, it seemed to be as hard reading as Tidd’s Practice, in Gray’s Inn.
“Seat uncomfortable, Tom?” said his uncle at last.
“No, uncle,” said the boy, colouring. “Why?”
“Because you can’t sit still. Oh, I understand. You are thinking of going out to watch.”