"Yes, and a terrible job to shut it," said Tom. "I thought we should never get it fast."

"Ah, I arn't surprised. Wind's a bl.u.s.terous sort o' thing when its reg'lar on. Just look: here's a wreck and rampagin', sir. What am I to begin to do next?"

"David!"

"Yes, sir; comin', sir," cried the gardener, in answer to a call; and as he went off to where his master was pointing out loose slates and a curled-up piece of lead on the roof to the village bricklayer, the miserable howl came again from much nearer.

"Pete must be somewhere about," thought Tom; and then, after giving another glance round at the damage done by the storm, he hurried out to have a look round the village, going straight to the green, where half the people were standing talking about the elms, which lay broken in a great many pieces, showing the brittleness of the wood, for the huge trunks had snapped here and there, and mighty boughs, each as big as a large tree, were shivered and splintered in a wonderful way.

Every here and there a ruddy patch in the road showed where tile or chimney-pot had been swept off and dashed to pieces. The sign at the village inn had been torn from its hinges, and farther on Tom came upon the Vicar examining the great gilt weather-c.o.c.k on the little spire at the top of the big square, ivy-clad tower.

He was at the edge of the churchyard using a small telescope, and started round as Tom cried, "Good-morning."

"Ah, good-morning, Tom. What a night! There, you try. Your eyes are young."

He handed the telescope.

"It's terrible, my lad," he said. "There's a barn out at Huggins's laid quite flat, they say, and two straw-stacks regularly swept away."

"The stacks, sir?" cried Tom, pausing, gla.s.s in hand.

"Well, not all at once, but the straw. They tell me it has been swept over the country for miles. I never remember such a storm here. I've seen them on the coast."

"Why, the bar under the letters has bent right down, sir," said Tom, after a minute's examination. "I can't see whether it's broken."

"Not likely to be, Tom," said the Vicar; "it is of copper. See anything else broken?"

"One of the arms--the one with the E on it--is hanging right down."

"Hah! Well, it must be mended. Did you hear the small bell in the night?"

"No," said Tom.

"It kept on giving a bang every now and then, for the tower shutters are all gone on the other side. Four came into my garden. I can't find more, so I suppose they have been blown into the tower among the bells.

Good-morning. I must go round the place and see who is damaged. Your uncle says you nearly had the top off the mill, and that you behaved splendidly."

"Oh, nonsense, sir!" said Tom, colouring. "I only nailed down the top shutter."

"Only? Well, Tom, I wouldn't have got up there and nailed it down for all the telescopes in England. Good-morning."

They parted, and Tom continued his way round by the church, getting a glimpse of the gaping window opening in the tower where the bells hung exposed; and then after pa.s.sing a great horse-chestnut lying in the next field, he went on round by Mother Warboys' and the other cottages, catching sight of the old woman standing at her door, with her hand over her eyes, as if watching.

The next minute she caught sight of him, and shouted. Then she shook her stick at him, and said something in a threatening way.

But the boy hurried on, crossed the fields, got into the narrow lane, and then went on and on till he was able to turn into the road which divided his uncle's field and grounds from the mill-yard.

No sooner had he turned into the sandy road than his ears were saluted by the dismal howling of Pete's dog, which was evidently somewhere near the mill.

"What a nuisance!" thought Tom, and he paused for a few moments, looking in that direction. "Bound to say Master Pete's hanging about somewhere, and the dog can't find him."

However, he did not stop, but trotted off in the opposite direction to have a look at Huggins's barn, which lay completely flat, the thatch scattered, and the wooden sides and rafters strewed all over the farm-yard.

Of the two straw-stacks nothing was visible on the spot but the round patches of f.a.ggots upon which they had been raised. The straw itself decorated hedges, hung in trees, and was spread over fields as far as he could see.

All at once he heard a yelp, and turning, there was Pete Warboys' dog racing toward him as hard as it could come. As it drew nearer, tearing along the sandy road, it began to bark furiously, and looked so vicious that Tom stooped and picked up a big stone.

That was sufficient; the dog yelped aloud, turned, leaped over a hedge, and ran for its life.

"Awful coward, after all," muttered Tom, throwing down the stone and returning to the house, where he set to work and helped David for the rest of the day.

Three times had David charged out after the dog, which kept coming and howling close at hand, and each time the gardener came back grumbling about some one having been "chucking that there dog bones."

"Cook says she arn't, sir, and t'other says she arn't; but I put it to you, sir, would that there dog come a-yowling here if he warn't hungry?"

"Perhaps that's why he has come, David," said Tom.

"No, sir, not athout he expected to get something. I wish him and Pete Warboys had been jolly well blowed out o' the parish last night, that I do."

That night at intervals the dog came howling about the place, and kept Tom awake for a while, but the exertions of the past night and the work of the day had told so upon him that he fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep, but only to be awakened just after sunrise by the mournful howl.

CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

"Oh, I can't stand this," said Tom, jumping up, and hurriedly beginning to dress, after throwing open his window to see the east gradually turning red, and the clouds far up tinged and necked with orange.

Then there was another low, piteous howling.

"Lie down, you brute!" he shouted out of the window, to be answered by a quick, yelping bark.

"Perhaps Pete is not about, and the dog really is starving," thought Tom; and he finished dressing as another howl broke out, more piteous and mournful than ever.

"Will you be quiet!" he shouted from the window. "Lie down, and I'll bring you a bone, you ugly, rat-tailed, low-bred dog-ruffian."

He was interrupted by a joyous, yelping bark.

"That dog does want to be friends with me, but I can't have him here,"

thought Tom, who now opened his door as quietly as he could, but it gave a loud creak, so did one of the boards, as he walked towards the staircase.

"That you, Tom?" came from his uncle's room.

"Yes, uncle."

"There's a dog making a miserable noise. Try and drive it away."

"Just going to, uncle," said Tom. Then to himself, as he went down-stairs--"Driving's no good, or old Dave would have got rid of him yesterday. I shall have to try him with a bone."

He laughed to himself as he made his way into the larder, wondering what Mrs Fidler would say if she could see him; and after looking beneath two or three wire covers, he pounced upon a bladebone of a shoulder of mutton, pretty literally a bone, and bore it away, taking his cap and going out into the garden, getting to the side gate in the lane, and pa.s.sing out just as the sun rose above the horizon.