Tom Orange was broaching a dreadful conspiracy.
It was no less than that the boy should meet him at the foot of the field where the two oziers grow, at eleven o’clock, on the night following, and run away with him, and see mammy again, and come to a nice place where he should be as happy as the day is long, and mammy live with him always, and Tom look in as often as his own more important business would permit.
“I will, Tom,” said the boy, wildly and very pale.
“And oh! Tom, I was so sorry about the trial, and what lies they told,” said the boy, after they had talked a little longer; “and saying that you had been with gipsies, and were a poacher; and oh! Tom, is mammy quite well?”
“Yes.”
“And all my ships were lost on the moor; and how is little Toozie the cat?”
“Very well; blooming—blushing.”
“And, Tom, you are quite well?”
“Never better, as I lately told Squire Harry Fairfield; and mind ye, I’ll be even yet with the old boy in there,” and he indicated the house with a jerk of his thumb.
“I don’t hear the organ, Tom. Good-bye.”