Uncle Richard frowned and looked very serious, but he uttered a low chuckle as he led the way into a snug little room, half-library, half-museum. A long, heavy chest stood on one side, formed of plain, dark-coloured wood; but upon its being opened, Tom saw that it was all beautifully polished ornamental wood inside, and full of drawers, trays, and fittings for bright saws, hammers, chisels, and squares.
“My old tool-chest, Tom. I used to have that at Sattegur in my bungalow, and do most of my carpentering myself, for the natives there are not much of hands when you want anything strong. When you want a tool—bradawl, gimlet, pincers, anything—here they all are.” He opened and shut drawers rapidly as he spoke. “Nails, screws, tacks, you’ll know where to find them, only put things back when done with. What did I come for? Oh, a rule. Here we are.” He took a new-looking boxwood rule from its place, closed the lid, and then led the way out into the garden, up a flight of steps formed of rough pieces of tree, and leading in a winding way through a shrubbery to a doorway in a wall. Passing through this, they were in a narrow lane, and close to the yard which enclosed the great brick tower of the mill.
“Nice and handy for conveying the flour-sacks to and fro, Tom, eh?” said Uncle Richard, smiling. “Now then, let’s have another inspection of the new old property.”
He took out a bunch of old keys, unlocked the gate, and entered; and then they crossed the yard, which was littered with old wood, and with here and there a worn-out millstone leaning against the walls, two extra large ones bound with rusty iron standing up like ornaments on either side of the mill-tower door, one above whitened with ancient flour, having evidently been used for loading carts drawn up close beneath.
“Splendid place, eh, Tom?” said Uncle Richard, as he unlocked the door, which uttered a low groan as its unoiled hinges were used, and a peculiar odour of old mildewed flour came from within. “We shall have a place now in case of invasion or civil war, ready for retreat and defence. We can barricade the lower doors, and hurl down the upper and nether millstones on the enemies’ heads, set the mill going, and mow them down with the sails, and melt lead ready to pour down in ladlefuls to make them run from the scalding silver soup. A grand tower for practising all those old barbaric delights.”
“Yes, sir,” said Tom uneasily, for his uncle looked at him penetratingly, as if expecting an answer.
“Is he serious, or only joking me?” thought Tom the next moment. “He must be a little wrong. Got windmills in his head, like Don Quixote.”
“Yah! yah! Who shot the moon?” came in a coarse yell from outside the gate.
Tom started, flushed, and turned round angrily, with his fists involuntarily clenching.
“Yah! yah! old wind-grinders!” cried the voice again, followed by several heavy bangs on the gate, evidently delivered with a stick.