Chapter 8

________________________________________________
_ 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. Passing 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.

"Splendid place, eh, Tom?" said Uncle Richard, as he unlocked the door, which uttered a low groan as its unoiled hinges were used, and a peculiar odour of old mildewed flour came from within. "We shall have a place now in case of invasion or civil war, ready for retreat and defence. We can barricade the lower doors, and hurl down the upper and nether millstones on the enemies' heads, set the mill going, and mow them down with the sails, and melt lead ready to pour down in ladlefuls to make them run from the scalding silver soup. A grand tower for practising all those old barbaric delights."

"Yes, sir," said Tom uneasily, for his uncle looked at him penetratingly, as if expecting an answer.

"Is he serious, or only joking me?" thought Tom the next moment. "He must be a little wrong. Got windmills in his head, like Don Quixote."

"Yah! yah! Who shot the moon?" came in a coarse yell from outside the gate.

Tom started, flushed, and turned round angrily, with his fists involuntarily clenching.

"Yah! yah! old wind-grinders!" cried the voice again, followed by several heavy bangs on the gate, evidently delivered with a stick.

"The impudent scoundrel!" cried Uncle Richard. "Go and tell that fellow that--"

But he got no further, for, taking all this as an insult meant for his uncle, Tom had darted off for the gate, which he threw open, and found himself face to face with a big, shambling, hobbledehoy sort of fellow of about eighteen or nineteen, who stepped back for a yard or two, swinging a heavy stick to and fro, while a mangy-looking cur, with one eye and a very thin tail like a greyhound's, kept close at his heels.

"What is it?" said Tom hotly. "Did you knock at the gate like that?"

"What's it got to do with you?" said the lad, insolently. "Get in, or I'll set the dog at yer."

Tom glanced at the dog and then at its master, and felt as he often had when his cousin Sam had been more than usually vicious.

"I'll jolly soon let yer know if yer give me any o' your mouth. Here, Badger, smell him, boy--ciss--smell him!"

The cur showed his teeth, and uttered a low snarling growl, as its master advanced urging him on; while Tom drew one leg a little back ready to deliver a kick, but otherwise stood his ground, feeling the while that everything was not going to be peaceful even in that lovely village.

But before hostilities could begin, and just as the dog and his master were within a yard, the gate was suddenly snatched open, and Uncle Richard appeared, when the lout turned sharply and ran off along the lane, followed by his dog, the fellow shouting "Yah! yah! yah!" his companion's snapping bark sounding like an imitation.

"Come in, Tom," said Uncle Richard. "I don't want you to get into rows with Master Pete Warboys. Insolent young rascal!"

Tom looked at his uncle inquiringly.

"That's the pest of the village, Tom. Nice young scoundrel. An idle dog, who has had a dozen places and will not stay in them, though he has no Cousin Sam to quarrel with."

Tom winced, for the words were a decided hit at him.

"So he has settled down into a regular nuisance, who does a bit of poaching, steals fruit, breaks windows, and generally annoys every one in the place. If he were not such an ugly, shambling cub some recruiting sergeant might pick him up. As it is, we have to put up with him and his ways."

"Yah!" came from a distance; and Tom's nerves tingled, for he did not like to hear the insult directed at his uncle, however strange he might be.

"There, let's go on with our inspection, my boy," and the gate was closed again, and they walked together up the slope into the mill.

There was not much to see on the ground-floor, save the whitened brick walls, a huge pillar or post in the middle, and a ladder-like flight of steps on one side, up which Uncle Richard led the way; and as Tom emerged from a trap-door, he found himself in a circular chamber, a little less than the one below, with three windows at the sides, the doorway he had seen from without, and three pairs of millstones placed horizontally, and connected by shafts with the mechanism above the cobwebby and flour-whitened ceiling. There was a flight of steps, too, here, and Tom now noticed that there was a trap-door overhead, formed with two flaps and a hole in the middle, while a similar one was at his feet.

"For sending the sacks up and down," said Uncle Richard. "The floors are thoroughly solid, and made of good stuff. Excellent," he continued. "Let's go up to the top."

He led the way up the second flight of steps into the next chamber, which was wonderfully like the floor below, minus the millstones; but the roof, instead of being a flat ceiling of boards and beams, was a complication of rafters, ties, posts, and cog-wheels, while at one side was the large pivot passing out through well-greased and blackened bearings, which bore the five sails of the mill, balanced to a great extent by the projecting fan, which, acted upon by the wind, caused the whole of the wooden cap which formed the top to revolve.

"There's the way out to repair the sails, or oil the great fan," said Uncle Richard, pointing to a little sloping doorway in the curved cap roof. "Think the place will do? It's a good fifteen feet from the floor to the curve."

"Do, sir?"

"Do, _uncle_, please. Yes, do! The whole top revolves easily enough, and will do so more easily when there are no sails or fan."

"Do you mean for defence, uncle?" stammered Tom.

"Defence?--nonsense. Attack, boy. The roof will only want modifying, and a long narrow shutter fitting, one that we can open or close easily from within. The place when cleaned, scraped, painted, and coloured will be all that one could wish, and is strong enough to bear anything. We can mount a monster here."

Tom looked more puzzled than ever. Monster?

"In the floor below make our laboratory, and keep chemicals and plates."

"Yes, uncle," said Tom; for he could understand that.

"And on the ground-floor do our grinding and fining."

"But the millstones are on the floor above," said Tom.

"Yes, I know, my boy, for the present; but I'll soon have them lowered down. There, the place will do splendidly, and Mrs Fidler will be at peace."

Tom did not see how Mrs Fidler could be at peace if the corn was ground on the basement-floor of the mill, but he said nothing.

"Now we'll go down," said Uncle Richard. "I'm more than satisfied. I'll have two or three stout fellows to lower down the stones; the rest we will do ourselves."

He led the way down, locked up the mill again and the outer gate, and then entered the garden and crossed it to the coach-house, where the packages brought down were waiting.

"Go to the tool-chest and fetch an iron chisel and the biggest hammer," said Uncle Richard. "No, it's screwed down. Bring the two largest screw-drivers."

Tom hurried away, and soon returned, to find that his uncle had opened one of the packages he had brought down, and was untying some brown paper, which proved to contain brass tubes and fittings, with slides and rack-work.

"Know what these are?" said Uncle Richard.

"They look like part of a photographic camera," said Tom.

"A good shot, my lad, but not right. Now for the big chest. I hope they are not broken. Try and get out some of the screws."

These were gradually drawn from the very stout chest, the lid lifted, a quantity of thickly-packed straw removed, and a round package of brown paper was revealed.

"Out with it, Tom," said his uncle. "No, don't trust to the string."

Tom bent down to lift out the package, but failed, and his uncle laughed.

"Let's both try," he said, and getting their fingers down, they lifted out something exceedingly heavy, and bore it to a stout bench. "Now for the other," said Uncle Richard; and after removing more straw, a second package was seen precisely like the first, which on being taken out and opened, proved to be a great solid disc of ground-glass made fairly smooth but quite opaque.

"Bravo! quite sound," cried Uncle Richard. "Now the other."

This proved also to have borne the journey well, and Tom looked from the two great discs to his uncle.

"Well," said the latter; "do you see what these are for?"

"To grind flour much finer?"

"To grind grandmothers, boy! Nonsense! Not to grind, but to be ground. Out of those Tom, you and I have to make a speculum of tremendous power."

"A looking-glass, sir?" said Tom, feeling rather depressed at his uncle's notion. For what could a sensible man want with looking-glasses made round, and weighing about a hundredweight each?

"Yes, a looking-glass, boy, for the sun and moon, and Jupiter, Venus, Mars, Saturn, and the rest to see their faces in, or for us to see them. I can't afford to give five or six hundred pounds for a telescope, so you and I will make a monster."

"Telescope!" cried Tom, as scales seemed to fall from before his eyes. "Oh, I see!"

"Well, didn't you see before?"

"No, uncle, I couldn't make it out. Then that's what you want the windmill for, to put the telescope in, with the top to turn round any way?"

"To be sure; it will make a splendid observatory, will it not?"

"Glorious, uncle!" cried the boy, whose appearance underwent a complete change, and instead of looking heavy and dull, his eyes sparkled with animation as he exclaimed eagerly, "How big will the telescope be?"

"A little wider than the speculum--about eighteen inches across."

"And how long?"

"Fifteen feet, boy."

"Yes," cried Tom, excitedly. "And when are you going to begin, uncle?"

"Now, my boy. At once." _

Read next: Chapter 9

Read previous: Chapter 7

Table of content of Vast Abyss


GO TO TOP OF SCREEN

Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book