Chapter Twenty Five.
The church clock was striking six when Tom awoke, sprang out of bed, and looked out of the window, to find a glorious morning, with everything drenched in dew.
Hastily dressing and hurrying down, he felt full of reproach for having overslept himself, his last thought having been of getting up at daybreak to continue the watch with David.
There were the pears hanging in their places, and not a footprint visible upon the beds; and there too were the indentations made by two pairs of knees in the black-currant rows, while the earth was marked by the coarse fibre of the sacks.
But the dew lay thickly, and had not been brushed off anywhere, and it suddenly struck Tom that the black-currant bushes would not be a favourable hiding-place when the light was coming, and that David must have selected some other.
“Of course: in those laurels,” thought Tom, and he went along the path; but the piece of lawn between him and the shrubs had not been crossed, and after looking about in different directions, Tom began to grin and feel triumphant, for he was, after all, the first to wake.
In fact it was not till half-past seven that the gardener arrived, walking very fast till he caught sight of Tom, when he checked his speed, and came down the garden bent of back and groaning.
“Morning, Master Tom, sir. Oh, my back! Tried so hard to drag myself here just afore daylight.”