“Yes.”
“Show me.”
Vane would far rather have led their visitor in another direction, but there was a masterful decided way about him that was not to be denied, and the lad led him into the large shed which had been floored with boards and lined, so as to turn it into quite a respectable workshop, in which were, beside a great heavy deal table in the centre, a carpenter’s bench, and a turning lathe, while nails were knocked in everywhere, shelves ran from end to end, and the place presented to the eye about as strange a confusion of odds and ends as could have been seen out of a museum.
Vane looked at the visitor as he threw open the door, expecting to hear a derisive burst of laughter, but he stepped in quietly enough, and began to take up and handle the various objects which took his attention, making remarks the while.
“You should not leave your tools lying about like this: the edges get dulled, and sometimes they grow rusty. Haven’t you a tool-chest?”
“There is uncle’s old one,” said Vane.
“Exactly. Then, why don’t you keep them in the drawers?—Humph! Galvanic battery!”
“Yes; it was uncle’s.”
“And he gives it to you to play with, eh?”
Vane coloured again.