“At the same time,” he said to the young man, “I really do not know that this will be of any service. I cannot ask Mr Simcox to take any responsibility in the matter. You have not even told me your name.”
“I know that,” replied the youth dejectedly, “but I cannot help it. I cannot expect others to take me on trust as generously as you have done.” And so saying he set off on his lonely journey, with kindly words from Daisy and her mother, the two boys accompanying him to the high-road.
The snow still lay on the ground, and Tom’s wish for a prolonged frost seemed likely to be fulfilled.
“We shall have splendid skating in a day or two,” he remarked to “the gentleman tramp,” as he and Ralph had dubbed the stranger. “Our pond isn’t very big, but it’s very good ice generally. You should see the lake at Uncle Ingram’s; that’s the best place, I know, for skating in England.”
The young man started at the name Tom mentioned.
“Where did you say?” he asked.
“At my uncle Ingram’s—Mr Morison’s,” said Tom. “It’s a long way from here.”
“But your name isn’t Morison. How can he be your uncle?”
“Why, his wife is our aunt. He married mamma’s sister. Uncles are often uncles that way,” said Tom with an air of superior wisdom.
“Of course,” said the young man; “how stupid of me.”