"Oh!" exclaimed Uncle Richard, grinding his teeth and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his face. "My good Mrs Fidler, don't!"

"What have I done, sir?" exclaimed the housekeeper.

"Say workshop, and leave laboratory alone."

"Certainly, sir, if you wish it."

"That's right. Well, Tom, what are you waiting for?"

"I thought, if you wouldn't mind, I should like to help you unpack the boxes."

"Oh, by all means, boy. Come along; but I'm going to have a look over the windmill first--my windmill, Mrs Fidler, now. All settled."

"I'm very glad you've got over the bother, sir."

"Oh, dear me, no," said Uncle Richard, laughing; "it has only just began. Well, what is it?"

"I didn't speak, sir."

"No, but you looked volumes. What have they been saying now?"

"Don't ask me, sir, pray," said the housekeeper, looking terribly troubled. "I can't bear to hear such a good man as you are--"

"Tut! stuff, woman. Nothing of the kind, Tom. I'm not a good man, only an overbearing, n.i.g.g.e.r-driving old indigo planter, who likes to have his own way in everything. Now then, old lady, out with it. I like to hear what the fools tattle about me; and besides, I want Tom here to know what sort of a character I have in Furzebrough."

"I--I'd really rather not say, sir. I don't want to hear these things, but people will talk to David and cook and Jenny, and it all comes to me."

"Well, I want to hear. Out with it."

"I do wish you wouldn't ask me, sir."

"Can't help it, Mrs Fidler. Come."

"Bromley the baker told cook, sir, that if you were going to grind your own flour, you might bake your own bread, for not a loaf would he make of it."

"Glad of it. Then we should eat bread made of pure wheat-meal without any potatoes and ground bones in it. Good for us, eh, Tom?"

"Better, uncle," said the boy, smiling.

"Well, what next?"

"Doctor told David out in the lane that he was sure you had a bee in your bonnet."

"To be sure: so I have; besides hundreds and thousands in the hives. Go on."

"And Jane heard down the village that they're not going to call it Pinson's mill any more."

"Why should they? Pinson's dead and gone these four years. It's Richard Brandon's mill now."

"Yes, sir, but they've christened it Brandon's Folly."

"Ha, ha! So it is. But what is folly to some is wisdom to others.

What next? Does old Mother Warboys say I am going to hold wizards'

sabbaths up in the top storey, and ride round on the sails o' windy nights?"

"Not exactly that, sir," said Mrs Fidler, looking sadly troubled and perplexed; "but she said she was sure you would be doing something uncanny up there, and she hoped that no evil would descend upon the village in consequence, for she fully expected that we should be smitten for your sins."

"Did she tell you this?"

"No, sir; she said it to Mr Maxted."

"Told the vicar?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what did he say?"

"She says he insulted her, sir, and that she'll never go into his church any more. She's been telling every one so--that he called her a silly, prejudiced old woman."

"Is that all?"

"It's all I can remember, sir."

"And enough too. Look here, Tom, you had, I think, better call David, and tell him to put the pony in and drive you back to the station. I'm sure you would rather go back to your uncle James, and be happy with your cousin Sam."

Tom smiled.

"You can't want to stay here."

"Are you going up to the mill now, uncle?" said Tom, with a quaint look.

"Oh yes, directly, if you are going to risk it. Ready?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Then come on."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Uncle Richard frowned and looked very serious, but he uttered a low chuckle as he led the way into a snug little room, half-library, half-museum. A long, heavy chest stood on one side, formed of plain, dark-coloured wood; but upon its being opened, Tom saw that it was all beautifully polished ornamental wood inside, and full of drawers, trays, and fittings for bright saws, hammers, chisels, and squares.

"My old tool-chest, Tom. I used to have that at Sattegur in my bungalow, and do most of my carpentering myself, for the natives there are not much of hands when you want anything strong. When you want a tool--bradawl, gimlet, pincers, anything--here they all are." He opened and shut drawers rapidly as he spoke. "Nails, screws, tacks, you'll know where to find them, only put things back when done with. What did I come for? Oh, a rule. Here we are." He took a new-looking boxwood rule from its place, closed the lid, and then led the way out into the garden, up a flight of steps formed of rough pieces of tree, and leading in a winding way through a shrubbery to a doorway in a wall. Pa.s.sing through this, they were in a narrow lane, and close to the yard which enclosed the great brick tower of the mill.

"Nice and handy for conveying the flour-sacks to and fro, Tom, eh?" said Uncle Richard, smiling. "Now then, let's have another inspection of the new old property."

He took out a bunch of old keys, unlocked the gate, and entered; and then they crossed the yard, which was littered with old wood, and with here and there a worn-out millstone leaning against the walls, two extra large ones bound with rusty iron standing up like ornaments on either side of the mill-tower door, one above whitened with ancient flour, having evidently been used for loading carts drawn up close beneath.