“Yes, David; striped ones.”
“Ay, sir, he have—red streaks. But think he’ll come again to-night?”
“No, David; so let’s get back and think of bed.”
“Yes, and of my bed here, sir. There’s a nice lot o’ footprints I know, and I come down first over a young gooseberry-bush, and feels as if here and there I’d got a few thorns in my skin.”
Tom listened again, but all was still, and the garden was as quiet ten minutes later, the ripening apples still hanging in their places.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
“And now, Tom,” said Uncle Richard one day, “here we have a perfect speculum or concave reflector, but it does not reflect enough. What would you do now?”
“Silver it,” said Tom promptly; “make it like a looking-glass.”