“Nay, they’re all right,” he said. “But you’ll come and have another try to-night?”
“Of course I will,” said Tom; and soon after he hurried in to breakfast.
That morning Tom was in the workshop, where for nearly two hours, with rests between, he had been helping the speculum grinding. Uncle Richard had been summoned into the cottage, to see one of the tradesmen about some little matter of business, and finding that the bench did not stand quite so steady as it should, the boy fetched a piece of wood from the corner, and felt in his pocket for his knife, so as to cut a wedge, but the knife was not there, and he looked about him, feeling puzzled.
“When did I have it last?” he thought. “I remember: here, the day before the speculum was broken. I had it to cut a wedge to put under that stool, and left it on the bench.”
But there was no knife visible, and he was concluding that he must have had it since, and left it in his other trousers’ pocket, when he heard steps, and looking out through the open door, he saw the Vicar coming up the slope from the gate.
“Good-morning, sir,” said Tom cheerily.
“Good-morning, Thomas Blount,” was the reply, in very grave tones, accompanied by a searching look. “Is your uncle here?”
“No, sir,” said Tom wonderingly; “he has just gone indoors. Shall I call him?”
“Yes—no—not yet.”
The Vicar coughed to clear his throat, and looked curiously at Tom again, with the result that the lad felt uncomfortable, and flushed a little.