“But what about you?”
“Oh, I’ve got one too, sir. I’m all right. Now then—mum!”
The hay made a faint sound as they both sat down after a glance round and listening intently. Then Tom pulled the horse-cloth up over his knees, for the night was chilly, and found it very warm and comfortable.
Then the various sounds from the village reached him—the barking of dogs, voices, the striking of the clock, the noise of wheels, the donkey’s braying, with a regularity wonderfully like that of the previous night, and then all silence and darkness, and ears strained to hear the rustling sound which must be made by any one climbing over the wall.
The time glided on; and as it grew colder, Tom softly drew the rug cloak-fashion over his shoulders, listened to note whether David made any remark about the rustling sound he made, but all the gardener said was something which resembled the word ghark, which was followed by very heavy breathing.
“Gone to sleep again,” said Tom to himself. “What’s the good of his pretending to sit and watch?”
He secured his hazel, aimed for where his companion sat in the next alley between the blackcurrants, and gave him a poke with the point.
But this had not the slightest effect, and another and another were administered, but without the least result; and thinking that he would have to administer a smart cut to wake up his companion, Tom set himself to watch alone.
“Don’t matter,” he muttered. “I can manage just as well without him.” And then he sat in the thick darkness, with his ears strained to catch the slightest noise, thinking over the Vicar’s visit that day, and about how he would like to catch Master Pete.
It was very warm and comfortable inside the horse-cloth, and must have been close upon nine o’clock, but he had not heard it strike. David was breathing regularly, so loudly sometimes that Tom felt disposed to rouse him up; but each time the breathing became easier, and he refrained.