“Of course you did, Mrs Fidler,” said Uncle Richard. Then, to change the conversation—“Well, Tom, how about the plane mirror; have you got one perfect yet?”
“Perfect, uncle?” said Tom, smiling. “I’m afraid not.”
“So am I, my lad; but have you made one as perfect as possible?”
“Yes, uncle, I’ve done that,” said Tom, who, ever since he rose that morning, had been in a state of mental perturbation, eager to tell his uncle about the breaking into the mill, but fully determined not to say a word—for several reasons—until they were alone.
“Well, let’s hear what you did.”
“Exactly as you told me, uncle. I took the three pieces of thick plate-glass, and ground them together, changing their positions over and over again, and ended by polishing them one over the other till I think they are as flat as they can possibly be.”
“That remains to be proved, Tom—in the telescope. One of the three ought to be good enough for us; but we shall see.”
Then the breakfast went on, with Uncle Richard spending a good deal of time over his letters; and at last Mrs Fidler rose and left the room, while Tom felt his cheeks grow warm with excitement.
The time had come for speaking about the robbery, and the question was how to begin. For the boy felt that he had been left in charge of the observatory, and that his uncle might fancy that he had neglected something in the way of securing the place. How then to begin?
While he was mentally seeking for the words connected with the first plunge, the difficulty was solved, the announcement coming out quite naturally, just as Tom felt that he must plunge at once into the story of how he had—in his ignorance—become once more poor.