“What was the matter with you, my boy?” said Uncle Richard, suddenly dropping the letter he was reading, and looking searchingly at his nephew.
“Matter, uncle?”
“Yes, when Mrs Fidler wanted to physic you. There must have been something wrong or she would not have noticed it. Too much fruit?”
“Oh no, uncle,” cried Tom eagerly. “She saw how dull and tired I looked after that night in the mill.”
“What? you never were so foolish as to stop up all night at work over those plane mirrors?”
“Oh no, uncle,” cried Tom, who was now well started; and he plunged at once into his narration, from the looking out of the window to his return to bed.
“Tut—tut—tut!” ejaculated Uncle Richard, frowning, and looking very grimly at his nephew, who, as soon as he had run down, changed from a state of eager excitement to one of depression, and felt quite chilled by the reception his news had met with.
“You don’t think I ought to have done more, do you, uncle?” he faltered.
“More? Goodness gracious, boy, what more could you have done? You behaved very pluckily, but it was a great risk to run. Then you have not made it known?”
“No, uncle. David knows, of course, but I gave him strict orders not to say a word.”