Ting.
Half-past eight by the dining-room clock, and Tom sprang up.
“Going, my boy?”
“Yes, uncle, David will be waiting.”
Uncle Richard nodded, and taking his cap and the hazel stick he had brought in, the boy went out silently, to find that it was a very soft dark night—so dark, in fact, that as soon as he had stepped on to the lawn he walked into one of the great bushes of laurustinus, and backed out hurriedly to reconsider which was the way. Then he stepped gently forward over the soft damp grass of the lawn, with his eyes now growing more accustomed to the darkness.
Directly after there was a low whistle heard.
“Where are you, David?”
“Here, sir. Come down between the raspberries.”
“Where are they, David? All right, I see now,” whispered Tom, and he stepped as far as he could across the flower-bed, which ran down beside the kitchen-garden, and the next minute felt the gardener’s hand stretched out to take his.
“Got your stick, sir?”