"Could he climb back into the gallery?"

He tried, but his strength was failing, and after three or four efforts he gave it up, to hang there inert, certain that the rope was nearly undone, and that as soon as his grasp failed upon the thin cord, which could not be long, down he must go, fully five-and-twenty feet--a distance which the horror and darkness and agony made ten times as terrible as it really was, though it would have been bad enough if half.

And all the while the wind raved and roared and tossed him about till he was giddy, and rapidly losing consciousness; twice over he banged heavily against the wall, though for the most part he was swung to and fro parallel to the little gallery. Then a horrible feeling of sickness attacked him, his hands fell to his sides, his head drooped, but the next moment he felt himself reviving, for he was gliding rapidly down; his feet touched the bottom, the rope slackened, then tightened, slackened again, and fell at his feet; while by the time he had staggered to the door, round at the other side of the building, trailing the rope after him like an elongated tail, and holding his painful chest with his hands, that door was opened, and he staggered into his uncle's arms.

"Well done, my brave lad!" cried Uncle Richard in the comparative silence of the workshop; but Tom could not answer.

"What is it? You are not hurt?"

There was no reply, only a feeble gasp or two, and in his horror his uncle gave him a rough shake, but directly after felt in the darkness for the rope, and rapidly untied it.

"Speak, my boy, if you can," cried Uncle Richard then. "You are not hurt?"

"No; I'm going to be all right now, I think," said Tom hoa.r.s.ely. Then in quite a fierce way he grasped at his uncle's arm. "Why didn't you lower me down?" he cried.

"I couldn't, boy. It was all in the dark, and the rope kept getting wedged by the broken wood. I was afraid to use violence for fear of breaking it, or ravelling it through. Let me help you back into the house. You've saved the roof of the mill."

"Think so?" said Tom huskily.

"Yes, more, Tom--sure," cried his uncle, jerking the rope into a corner, and re-opening the door.

"Think the light's quite out?"

"Yes, certain," cried Uncle Richard; and banging to and locking the door, he caught hold of Tom's arm.

"I'm all right now," said the boy; and they hurried back into the house, securing gates as they went, to find Mrs Fidler looking whiter than ever; and quite tearful as she exclaimed--

"Oh dear! I was afraid something dreadful had happened. Do pray sit down and have a cup of tea, sir."

They did, and with the storm increasing in violence, Tom went up once more to his room, to lie down in his clothes, and listen to the raging wind, and the sounds which told from time to time of destruction to tile, chimney-pot, or tree.

At least he meant to do this, but in ten minutes or so the sound of the wind had lulled him to sleep, and he did not open his eyes again till morning, to find the storm dropped and the sun shining brightly.

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

"Them four lights from the cowc.u.mber frames, Master Tom, lifted off, carried eight-and-forty foot, dashed down and smashed, so as there arn't a single whole pane o' gla.s.s left."

"That's a bad job, David," said Tom, as he stood looking about him at the ruin caused by the hurricane; "but the telescope is all right."

"Yer can't grow cowc.u.mbers with tallow-scoops, Master Tom. The first thing I see as soon as I goes into the little vinery there was two big slates off the top o' the house, blowed off like leaves, to go right through the gla.s.s, and there they was sticking up edgeways in the vine border."

"Well, only a job for the glazier," said Tom.

"Strikes me there won't be gla.s.s enough left in the village to do all the mending. Mrs Bray's front window was blowed right in, and all the sucker and lollypop gla.s.ses knocked into a mash o' gla.s.s splinters and stick. There's a limb off the baking pear-tree; lots o' branches teared loose from the walls; a big bit snapped off the cedar, and that there arby whitey blowed right sidewise. It's enough to make a gardener as has any respect for himself break his 'art."

"Never mind, David; I'll come out and help you try to put things straight."

"Will you, Master Tom?"

"Of course I will."

"But we can't mend them there frame-lights. The wood's gone too."

"No, but I'll ask uncle to buy some new ones; they were very old."

"Well, if you come to that, sir, they was that touch-woody that if it hadn't been for the thick paint I put on 'em every spring, till they had quite a houtside skin o' white lead, they wouldn't ha' held together.

Stop, that arn't all: the tool-house door's blowed right off. Natur's very well in some things, but I never could see what was the good o' so much wind bl.u.s.tering and rampaging about. I was very nigh gettin' up and coming to see how things was, on'y the tiles and pots was a-flying, so that I thought I'd better stop in bed."

"I wish you had come," said Tom.

"Ay, that's all very well, Master Tom; but s'pose one o' they big ellums as come down on the green--four on 'em--had dropped atop o' me, what would master ha' done for a gardener? There's n.o.body here as could ha'

kept our garden as it ought to be."

"It was a terrible night, David."

"Terrible arn't the word for it, Master Tom. Why, do you know--Yah!

You there again. Here, stop a minute."

David ran to a piece of rock-work, picked up a great pebble, and trotted to the side of the garden, whence a piteous, long-drawn howl had just arisen--a dismal mournful cry, ending in a piercing whine, such as would be given by a half-starved tied-up dog left in an empty house.

David reached the hedge, reached over, hurled the stone, and sent after it a burst of objurgations, ending with--

"Yah! G'long home with yer. Beast!"

"That's about settled him," he said as he came back, smiling very widely.

"Strange dog, David?"

"Strange, sir? Not him. It's that ugly, hungry-looking brute o' Pete Warboys'. That's four times he's been here this morning, chyiking and yelping. You must have been giving him bones."

"I? No, I never fed him."

"Then cook must. We don't want him here. But I don't think he'll come again."

"Did you hit him?"

"Hit him, sir? What with that there stone? Not I. n.o.body couldn't hit him with stick or stone neither. Keepers can't even hit him with their guns, or he'd been a dead 'un long ago. He's the slipperest dog as ever was."

"_Hy--yow--ow--oo--ooo_!" came from a distance--a pitiful cry that was mournful in the extreme.

"Hear that, sir?"

Before Tom could answer the gardener went on--

"So you had the trap-door atop busted open, did yer, sir?"