“But it’s bringing up all the good in his nature, Tom,” said the Vicar, rubbing his hands, “and we shall make a decent man of him yet.”
“Humph! doubtful!” said Uncle Richard.
“You go and look for comets and satellites,” cried the Vicar good-humouredly. “Tom’s on my side, and we’ll astonish you yet. Wait a bit.”
Uncle Richard smiled, and David, when Pete formed the subject of conversation, used to chuckle.
“Not you, Master Tom,” he said; “you’ll never make anything of him, but go on and try if you like. I believe a deal more in the dog. He arn’t such a bad one. But Pete—look here, sir. If you could cut him right down the thick part below his knees, which you couldn’t do, ’cause he arn’t got no thick part, for them shambling legs of his are like pipe-shanks—”
“What are you talking about, David?” said Tom merrily.
“Pete Warboys, Master Tom. I say, if you could cut him down like that, and then graft in a couple o’ scions took of a young gent as I knows—never you mind who—bind ’em up neatly, clay ’em up, or do the same thing somewheres about his middle, you might grow a noo boy, as’d bear decent sort o’ fruit. But you can’t do that; and Pete Warboys ’ll be Pete Warboys as long as he lives.”
The old gardener had some ground for his bad opinion, for as the time rolled on, Pete grew strong and well, and then rapidly began to grow into a sturdy, strongly-built fellow, who always had a grin and a nod for Tom when they met; but it was not often, for he avoided every one, becoming principally a night bird, and only showed his gratitude to those who had nursed him through his dangerous illness, after saving his life, by religiously abstaining from making depredations upon their gardens.
“Which is something,” David said with a chuckle. “But I allus told you so, Master Tom; I allus told you.”
Tom, too, proved that the country air and his life with his uncle agreed with him, for he grew wonderfully.