“Speak, my boy, if you can,” cried Uncle Richard then. “You are not hurt?”
“No; I’m going to be all right now, I think,” said Tom hoarsely. Then in quite a fierce way he grasped at his uncle’s arm. “Why didn’t you lower me down?” he cried.
“I couldn’t, boy. It was all in the dark, and the rope kept getting wedged by the broken wood. I was afraid to use violence for fear of breaking it, or ravelling it through. Let me help you back into the house. You’ve saved the roof of the mill.”
“Think so?” said Tom huskily.
“Yes, more, Tom—sure,” cried his uncle, jerking the rope into a corner, and re-opening the door.
“Think the light’s quite out?”
“Yes, certain,” cried Uncle Richard; and banging to and locking the door, he caught hold of Tom’s arm.
“I’m all right now,” said the boy; and they hurried back into the house, securing gates as they went, to find Mrs Fidler looking whiter than ever; and quite tearful as she exclaimed—
“Oh dear! I was afraid something dreadful had happened. Do pray sit down and have a cup of tea, sir.”
They did, and with the storm increasing in violence, Tom went up once more to his room, to lie down in his clothes, and listen to the raging wind, and the sounds which told from time to time of destruction to tile, chimney-pot, or tree.