“Yes,” said Uncle Richard seriously; “your advice, gained by long experience, will be as valuable as mine.”
One more reminiscence of Tom Blount’s country life, and we will leave him to his star-gazing, well on the high-road to making himself one of those quiet, retiring, scientific men of whom our country has such good cause to be proud.
Heatherleigh and its neighbourhood had been very peaceful for four years, and the word poacher had hardly been heard, when one day, as Tom was in the laboratory, he heard a sharp tapping being given at the yard gate with a stick, and going to the window he started, for there was a tall, dark, smart-looking artillery sergeant, standing looking up, ready to salute him as his face appeared.
“Cousin Sam!” mentally exclaimed Tom, and his face flushed.
“Beg pardon, sir; can I have a word with you?” came in a loud, decisive, military way.
“Why, it’s Pete Warboys!” cried Tom. “Yes, all right; I’ll come down,” and he went below to where the sergeant stood, drawn up stiff, well set-up, and good-looking, waiting for the summons to enter.
“Yes, sir, it’s me,” said the stranger, smiling frankly.
“I shouldn’t have known you, Pete.”
“S’pose not, sir. They rubbed me down, and set me up, and the clothes make such a difference. Besides, it’s over four years since you saw me.”
“Yes—how time goes; but I did not know you had enlisted.”