and then bounded up the bank leading into the wood, where it turned
to stand wagging its long thin tail, whisked round again, after giving
another bark, and then bounded after its master.

"Come, I've made friends with him," said Tom, "anyhow." And though
disappointed by Pete's return after a long stay with some gipsy-like
relatives of his grandmother, he could not help feeling glad that the
dog displayed some gratitude for what had been done.

"Pete Warboys has come back, David," cried Tom, hurrying down the garden
as soon as he had ended his walk.

"Yes, bad luck to him, sir. I was going to tell you. I heared of it
'bout an hour ago. Been a-gipsying, I expect, with some of their
people, who've got a door-mat van, and goes about with a screwy old
horse. We shall be having some nice games again."

"Not after the fruit, David."

"Well, no, sir, 'cause there arn't none. It'll be eggs and chickens,
and the keepers round about 'll know my gentleman's here. Say, Master
Tom?"

"Yes."

"Thought you was going to make a noo chap of him?"

"How could I when he wasn't here?"

"No, course not; but your time's come now, sir. What you've got to do
is to sarve him as you do your specklums. You grind him down--there's
plenty on him--and then polish him into a fresh sort of boy."

The gardener leaned upon his spade and chuckled.

"Ah, you may laugh, David," said Tom; "but he might have been a decent
lad if he had had a chance."

"Not he, sir. Mr Maxted tried, but it was the wrong stuff. Look here,
sir, when you makes a noo specklum, what do you do it of?"

"Glass, of course."

"Yes, sir, clear glass without any bubbles in it. You don't take a bit
of rough burnt clay; you couldn't polish that. He's the wrong stuff,
sir. Nobody couldn't make nothing o' him but a drill-serjeant, and he
won't try, because Pete's too ugly and okkard even to be food for powder
and shot."

"I don't know," said Tom, as he thought of the scene with the dog.

"And I do, sir. You mark my words--now Pete's back there's going to be
games."

But the days glided by; and Tom had so much to think of that he saw
nothing of Pete Warboys' games, and he could hardly believe it possible
when summer came again.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

"From your cousin," said Uncle Richard, opening one of his letters, his
face gradually growing very stern and troubled as he read; while as he
finished and raised his eyes, he found that Tom was watch