Before it could gather itself up for a fresh attack Tom, in his desperation, stooped down and picked up the nearest thing to him—to wit, a good-sized fir-cone, which he hurled at the dog with all his might. It was very light, and did not hit its mark, but the young poacher’s dog was a bad character, and must have known it. Certainly it had had stones thrown at it before that morning, and evidently under the impression that it was about to have its one eye knocked out or its head split, it uttered a piercing whining cry, tucked its thin tail between its legs, and began to run back toward its master as fast as it could go, chased by another fir-cone, which struck the ground close by it, and elicited another yelp.
Tom laughed, and at the same time felt annoyed with himself.
“Why didn’t I do it at first?” he said; “and that isn’t the worst of it—that fellow will think I ran away because I was afraid of him.”
This last thought formed the subject upon which Tom dwelt all the way back, and he was still busy over an argument with himself as to whether he had been afraid of the young poacher or no, when, after missing the way two or three times among the firs, he caught sight of the church clock pointing to a quarter to eight.
“Just time to get in,” he said, as he increased his pace; and then—“Yes, I suppose it was afraid of him, for he is a good deal bigger and stronger than I am.”
“Hullo, Tom! been for a walk?” saluted him, as he was hurrying at last along the lane which divided his uncle’s grounds from the new purchase.
Tom looked up quickly, and found that Uncle Richard was looking over the wall of the mill-yard.
“That’s right,” continued his uncle. “What do you think of the place?”
“Glorious!” said Tom.
“Hungry?”