“But you should ha’ spoke, sir,” cried David, from over the other side now. “Mussy on us, you did hit hard.”
“Yes; I thought it was Pete, and that he had come at last.”
“Come at last!” grumbled David, as Uncle Richard stood silently shaking with laughter. “Why, he’s been—”
Just then there was a scratching sound, a flash of light, and a match burned brightly beneath the wall. Then another was struck, throwing up David’s figure against the pear-tree, as, shielding the burning splint with his hands, he held it quickly up and down.
“What are you doing?” said Uncle Richard, as Tom gave a stamp caused by the pain he felt.
“Looking for my pears, sir, as I was when young Master Tom come and hit me. There arn’t a single one left.”
“What!” cried Tom, forgetting the stinging of the cuts on his leg. “Oh, David, don’t say they’re all gone!”
“What shall I say then, sir?” grumbled David; and he then drew in his breath with a hissing sound, and began to rub too.
“Do you mean to say the pears have been stolen while you two were keeping watch?”
“I dunno, sir,” grumbled David. “They’re not here now; and I’ll take half a davy as they was here at arpus eight.”