“Will you sit down, sir?” said Tom, taking a pot of rough emery off a stool, and giving the top a rub.
“Thank you, no.”
The Vicar coughed again to get rid of an unpleasant huskiness, and then, as if with an effort—
“The fact is, Thomas Blount, I am glad he is not here, for I wish to say a few words to you seriously. I did mean to speak to him, but this is better. It shall be a matter of privacy between us, and I ask you, my boy, to treat me not as your censor but as your friend—one who wishes you well.”
“Yes, sir, of course. Thank you, sir, I will,” said Tom, who felt puzzled, and grew more and more uncomfortable as he wondered what it could all mean, and finally, as the Vicar remained silent, concluded that it must be something to do with his behaviour in church. Then no, it could not be that, for he could find no cause of offence.
“I know,” thought Tom suddenly. “He wants me to go and read with him, Latin and Greek, I suppose, or mathematics.”
The Vicar coughed again, and looked so hard at Tom that the boy felt still more uncomfortable, and hurriedly began to pull down his rolled-up shirt-sleeves and to button his cuffs.
“Don’t do that, Thomas Blount,” said the Vicar, still more huskily; “there is nothing to be ashamed of in honest manual labour.”
“No, sir, of course not,” said the lad, still more uncomfortable, for it was very unpleasant to be addressed as “Thomas Blount,” in that formal way.
“I often regret,” said the Vicar, “that I have so few opportunities for genuine hard muscular work, and admire your uncle for the way in which he plunges into labour of different kinds. For such work is purifying, Thomas Blount, and ennobling.”