“Yes,” cried Tom eagerly, “that’s it! Where did you find it, sir? I know; you must have taken it off that bench by mistake when uncle showed you round.”
“No, Thomas Blount,” said the Vicar, shaking his head, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the lad; “I found it this morning in my garden.”
“You couldn’t, sir,” cried Tom bluntly. “How could it get there?”
The Vicar gazed at him without replying, and Tom added hastily—
“I beg your pardon, sir. I meant that it is impossible.”
“The knife asserts that it is possible, sir. Take it. A few pence would have bought those plums.”
The hand Tom had extended dropped to his side.
“What plums, sir?” he said, feeling more and more puzzled.
“Bah! I detest pitiful prevarication, sir,” cried the Vicar warmly. “The knife was dropped by whoever it was stripped the wall of my golden drops last night. There, take your knife, sir, I have altered my intentions. I did mean to speak to your uncle.”
“What about?” said Uncle Richard, who had come up unheard in the excitement. “Good-morning, Maxted. Any one’s cow dead? Subscription wanted?”