One hot, sultry afternoon, when the rest had gone off to the woods on a picnic, Tom started alone for his favorite hiding-place in the cliff near the alder run. He walked slowly down the path, looking neither to right nor left, and seeing nothing of the beauty of flower and bird and tree about him. He was saying over and over to himself, “I’ll do it! I won’t stand it any longer! I’ll do it this very afternoon!”
He made his way across the field, down through the pasture, and along the dry brook-channel to the drooping beech-tree. Glancing about him carelessly, from mere habit, he swung himself up to the trunk and clambered into the snug nook among the ferns.
Had he, for once, scrutinized his surroundings more earnestly, and peered around the corner of the large fallen bowlder at the foot of the cliff, he might have seen two dark eyes fastened upon him, from among the undergrowth. Their gaze was so full of spite and low cunning that it would have been well for Tom had he caught a glimpse of them and sprung away at once. But without a thought of danger, his mind concentrated on one object alone, he reached his high perch, and seated himself on a rock to regain his breath.
Already his face had a better expression than it had worn for weeks. His lips were set, as if with a firm and noble resolve; his eyes flashed with the light that always shines full on the face that is turned toward the Right. It was plain that Tom had made up his mind at last, and was happier for it, whatever might be the consequences.
After resting a few moments, he carefully removed a few odd bits of stone and moss from the mouth of a crevice in the rock, and drew out Pet’s watch. He at once examined it thoroughly, holding it to his ear as he had done on a previous occasion.
“Yes,” said he to himself, with great satisfaction, “it’s all right. One good rub, to brighten it up, and in fifteen minutes it shall be in uncle Will’s hands.”
He drew a piece of flannel from his pocket, and polished the case of the pretty little timepiece, inside and out, until it shone so that he could see his own face reflected in the gold. Then he placed it carefully in an inner pocket, and rising to his feet with a sigh of relief, stepped down toward the slanting trunk of the beech, on which he was prepared to descend, as usual.
He had no sooner stooped for this purpose, however, when he started back with an involuntary cry of alarm.
About six feet below him, staring upward with a face full of malignant cunning, was Sebattis Megone, in the very act of seizing the swaying limbs of the tree to mount the ledge. The moment he saw that he was detected, he released his grasp on the boughs, and stood still, looking up at Tom with an ugly grin.
“Ugh!” he grunted, Indian-fashion. “What boy do on rocks? What he want in woods?”