The Vast Abyss

He was in the act of placing his last extinct scrap of match in his pocket, as he stood in a stooping position facing the mouth of the little cave, when he heard a faint rustling sound, and directly after something seemed to leap right in at the entrance, disturbing the pendulous fringe of exposed roots which hung down, and crouching in the dim light close to Tom’s feet.

“Rabbit!” he said to himself.

But the next moment he saw that it was not alive, for it lay there in a peculiar distorted fashion; and as his eyes grew more used to the gloom, he saw that there was a wire about the poor animal cutting it nearly in two, and a portion of a strong wooden peg protruded from beneath.

“I begin to see now,” muttered Tom. “I dare say I should find the place somewhere about where he cooks his rabbits, unless he sells them.”

Tom wanted to get out now. The poaching was nothing to him, he thought, and he seemed to have been wrong about the fruit, so he was ready to hurry away, but something within him made him resent the idea of being seen prying there; and it was evident that Pete had been out looking at his wires, and had just brought this rabbit home.

“Perhaps he has gone now,” thought Tom; but he did not stir, waiting till he thought all was clear. Then at the end of a quarter of an hour he crept out into the open hole, raised his head cautiously, and got his eyes above the edge, when, to his disgust, he saw that Pete was approaching hurriedly, swinging another rabbit by the legs.

Tom shot back quickly enough into Pete’s lurking-place, and turned to face him if the fellow came in. He did not think he was afraid of Pete, but all the same he did not feel disposed to have a tussle before breakfast. Besides, his leg was rather stiff and painful from the blows David had given to him.

But he had little time for thinking. All at once the rushing sound began again, accompanied by a shuffling and a hoarse “Get out,” followed by the sound of a blow, and directly after by a sharp yelp.

Then there was a dull thud as the light was momentarily obscured, and another rabbit caught in a wire was thrown in.

“Now for it,” thought Tom, and he involuntarily stretched out his hand to seize the stick close to the bed, but clenched his fist instead, and stood there in his confined stooping position ready to defend himself, but sorry that he had not boldly gone out at once.

Suddenly there was a fresh darkening of the light, and Tom did seize the stout stick and hold it lance fashion, for the dog had leaped down into the hole, and now stood at the little entrance to the cave growling savagely.

“Let ’em alone,” cried Pete, “d’yer hear? Let ’em alone.”

But the dog paid no heed. It stood there with its eyes glaring, showing its teeth, and threatening unheard-of worryings of the interloper.

Still Pete did not grasp the situation. The dog in his estimation was disobeying him by attempting to worry dead rabbits; and, leaping down into the hole, he kicked savagely at it, making it yelp loudly and bound out of the hole, Pete, whose legs up to the waist had now been visible to Tom, scrambling after the animal, abusing it with every epithet he could think of, and driving it before him through the wood.

“My chance,” thought Tom, and he sprang out, and making a circuit, struck out for home without seeing either Pete or his dog again.

But Tom did not feel satisfied, for it seemed to him that he was behaving in a cowardly way; and as he tramped along the lane, he wished that he had walked out boldly and confronted his enemy instead of remaining in hiding. Taken altogether, he felt thoroughly grumpy as he approached the cottage, and it did not occur to him that his sensation of depression had a very simple origin. In fact it was this. He had risen before the sun, and had a very long walk, going through a good deal of exertion without having broken his fast. When breakfast was half over he felt in the highest spirits, for his uncle had made no allusion to the adventure in the garden over-night.

Chapter Twenty Eight

Tom saw very little of Pete Warboys during the next fortnight or so. The fruit kept on ripening, and twice over raids were made upon the garden, but whoever stole the fruit left no clue but a few footmarks behind, and these were always made by bare feet.

“It’s that there Pete,” said David; “but foots is foots, and I don’t see how we can swear as they marks is hisn.”

Meanwhile the telescope progressed, and busy work was in progress in the mill, where a large tube was being constructed by securing thin narrow boards planed very accurately to half-a-dozen iron hoops by means of screws and nuts.

Then came a day when Uncle Richard found that he must go to town again to get sundry fittings from an optician, and Tom was left the task of grinding three small pieces of plate-glass together, so as to produce one that was an accurate plane or flat.

It was understood that Uncle Richard would not be back for three days, and after seeing him off, Tom felt important in being left in full charge, as he was in the lower part of the mill polishing away when the door was darkened.

“How are you getting on, sir?” said David, as he stood there smiling.

“Pretty well; but this is a long job.”

“What are you doing, sir?”

“Polishing these glasses together so as to get one of them perfectly flat.”

“Tchah! that’s easy enough. What d’yer want ’em so flat for?”

“So as to make a reflector that will send back a ray of light quite exact – a perfect mirror.”

“That’s a looking-glass, arn’t it, sir?”

“Yes.”

“I wish you’d make one, sir, as would work o’ nights, and show us when Pete Warboys comes arter my pippins. That’d bang all yer tallow-scoops.”

“Impossible, David.”

“Yes, sir, s’posed so when I said it. But I say, Master Tom.”

“Yes.”

“That chap’s sure to know as your uncle’s gone to London for two or three days.”

“Yes; you can’t move here without its being known, David,” said Tom, polishing away, and making his fingers dirty.

“Then, don’t you see, sir?”

“No; what?”

“Pete’ll be coming to-night, as sure as there’s meat in eggs.”

“Think so?” said Tom, who felt a peculiar thrill run through him.

“I’m sure on it, sir. There is a deal o’ fruit left to pick yet, and you and me can do that little job better than Pete Warboys.”

“Let’s go down and watch then.”

“Will you, sir?”

“Yes, David, I’ll come. But don’t go to sleep this time.”

“Nay, I won’t trust you,” said the gardener, laughing softly. “You’ll get hitting at me again instead of at Pete. I arn’t forgetted that swipe you give me that night.”

“Well, you gave it back to me with interest,” said Tom.

“Ay, that’s so, sir; I did. But it wouldn’t do for master to come and find all our late apples gone.”

“What time shall we begin then?”

“Not a minute later than six, sir.”

And punctually to that hour Tom stole down the garden and found David, who began to chuckle softly —

“Got yer stick, Master Tom?”

“Yes; got yours?”

“No, sir, I’ve got something better. Feel this.”

“A rope?”

“Yes, sir, and a noose in it, as runs easy.”

“To tie him?”

“To lash-show him, sir. We’ll go down to the bottom where he’s most likely to come over, and then I’ll catch him and hold him, and you shall let him have it.”

The ambush was made – a gooseberry ambush, Tom called it – and for quite an hour Tom knelt on a sack waiting patiently, but there was not a sound, and he was beginning to think it a miserably tiresome task, when all at once, as they crouched there securely hidden, watching the wall, some eight feet away, it seemed to Tom that he could see a peculiar rounded black fungus growing out of the top.

It was very indistinct, and the growth was very slow, but it certainly increased, and the boy stretched out his hand to reach over an intervening gooseberry-bush so as to touch David, but he touched an exceedingly sharp thorn instead and winced, but fortunately made no noise.

Hoping that David had seen what was before him, Tom waited for a few moments, with the dark excrescence still gradually growing, till he could contain himself no longer, and reaching this time with his stick, he gave the gardener a pretty good poke, when the return pressure told him that this time his companion was well upon the alert.

All at once, when the dark object had grown up plainly into a head and shoulders, it ceased increasing, and remained perfectly motionless, as if a careful observation was being made by some one watchful in the extreme.

“Why don’t David throw?” thought Tom, who held himself ready to spring forward at a moment’s notice, “He could not help catching him now.”

But David made no signal, and Tom crouched there with his nerves tingling, waiting in the darkness for the time when he must begin.

At the end of about ten minutes there was a quick rustling sound, the dark shadow altered its shape, and Tom saw that whoever it was lay straight along upon the wall perfectly motionless for a few minutes longer as if listening intently. Then very quickly there was another motion, a sharp rustling, and the intruder dropped upon the ground.

It was too dark to see what followed, but Tom knew that David had risen slowly upright, and uttered a grunt as he threw something, evidently the lasso; for there was a dull sound, then a rush and a scrambling and crashing, as of some one climbing up the wall, and lastly David shouted —

“Got him, sir. Let him have it.”

Tom darted forward and came in contact with the rope, which was strained tightly from where David hung back to the top of the wall, the lassoed thief having rushed back as soon as touched by the rope, reached the top of the wall, and threw himself over, to hang there just below quite fast, but struggling violently, and making a hoarse noise like some wild beast.

“At him, Master Tom! Give it him!”

Tom wanted no urging; he seized the rope and tried to draw the captive back into the garden, but the effort was vain, so leaving it he drew back, took a run and a jump, scrambled on to the top of the wall, so as to lean over, and then began thrashing away with his stout hazel as if he were beating a carpet.

Thud, thud – whack, whack, he delivered his blows at the struggling object below, and at every whish of the stick there was a violent kick and effort to get free. Once the stick was seized, but only held for a moment before it was dragged away, and then, thud, thud, thud, the blows fell heavily, while, in an intense state of excitement, the gardener kept on shouting —

“Harder, harder, Master Tom! Sakes, I wish I was there! Harder, sir, harder! Let him have it! Stop him! Ah!”

There was a rustling, scrambling sound on Tom’s side of the wall, and the cracking of the stick, which had come in contact with the bricks, for the prisoner had escaped, and his footsteps could be faintly heard, as he dashed over the grassy field into the darkness, where Tom felt it would be useless to pursue.

But just then he did not possess the power, for he could only lean there over the wall, and laugh in a way that was quite exhausting, and it was not until David had been growling and muttering for some minute or two that he was able to speak.

“What made you let him go, David?” he panted at last.

“Let him go, sir? I didn’t let him go. He just jerked the rope out of my hands, after dragging me down and over the gravel path. There’s no end o’ bark off my knuckles and nose.”

“Oh, don’t say you’re hurt, David,” said Tom, sitting up astride of the wall.

“Why not, sir? Yes, I shall. I’m hurt horrid. Arms feel ’most jerked out o’ the sockets, and skin’s off the palms of my hands, leastwise it feels like it. Going to run arter him?”

“Oh no, it’s of no use. I gave him an awful thrashing though.”

“I wish you’d give him ten times as much, my lad – a wagabone. It was Pete Warboys, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t know; I couldn’t tell. It was like something in a long sack kicking about there. I hit him nearly every time.”

“Well, that’s something, sir. Do him more good than a peck out o’ our apples. Better for his morials. He ought to have had twice as much.”

“But he had enough to keep him from coming again.”

“Mebbe, sir; but there’s a deal o’ wickedness in boys, when they are wicked, and they soon forgets. Here, chuck me the rope, and I’ll coil it up.”

“Rope! I have no rope.”

“Why, you don’t mean to say as you’ve let him cut off with it, sir?”

“I!” cried Tom. “Why you had it.”

“Ay, till he snatchered it away, when I was down. Hff! My elbows.”

“Then he has run away with it, David.”

“Ay, and he’ll go and sell it; you see if he don’t. Nice nooish bit o’ soft rope as it were too.”

“Never mind the rope, David,” said Tom, jumping down, after listening intently for a few minutes.

“Ah, that’s werry well for you, sir; but what am I to say when master arkses me what’s become on it?”

“I’ll tell him, David. There, it’s nearly ten again. I say, you didn’t go to sleep to-night.”

“No, nor you nayther, sir,” said David, with a chuckle. “I’m sorry ’bout that rope, but my word, you did let him have it, sir. Can’t be much dust left in his jacket.”

David burst into a hoarse fit of laughter, and Tom joined in, laughing till the tears ran down his cheeks.

“Say, Master Tom,” cried David. “Pippins!”

There was another burst of laughter, and then David suggested Wellingtons, and followed up with Winter Greenings, each time roaring with laughter.

“He’s got apples this time, and no mistake, sir,” he said.

“Yes, David; striped ones.”

“Ay, sir, he have – red streaks. But think he’ll come again to-night?”

“No, David; so let’s get back and think of bed.”

“Yes, and of my bed here, sir. There’s a nice lot o’ footprints I know, and I come down first over a young gooseberry-bush, and feels as if here and there I’d got a few thorns in my skin.”

Tom listened again, but all was still, and the garden was as quiet ten minutes later, the ripening apples still hanging in their places.

Chapter Twenty Nine

“And now, Tom,” said Uncle Richard one day, “here we have a perfect speculum or concave reflector, but it does not reflect enough. What would you do now?”

“Silver it,” said Tom promptly; “make it like a looking-glass.”

“Exactly; but how would you do that?”

“Oh, it’s easy enough, I believe,” said Tom. “You get a sheet of tinfoil, lay it on a table, cover it with quicksilver, and then put the glass on it, and press it with weights till the tinfoil and quicksilver stick to the glass, and then you have a regular mirror.”

“You seem to know all about it, Tom,” said the Vicar, who had dropped in for a chat, and to hear how the telescope was going on.

“I read it somewhere,” said Tom.

“And he can always recollect this sort of thing,” said his uncle; “but never could remember anything to do with the law.”

Tom looked at him reproachfully.

“Well,” continued Uncle Richard, “your process would do for ordinary looking-glasses, Tom, but not for an optical reflector.”

“Why, uncle?”

“Because the rays of light would have to pass through the thickness of the glass before they reached the reflecting surface, – the quicksilver, – and in so doing they would be refracted – broken-up and discoloured – so that the reflection would most likely be doubled when it came away; that is, you would see one reflection from the silver at the back, and another from the surface of the glass.”

“Therefore,” said the Vicar, “we must decline friend Tom’s ingenious proposal, and take yours, Brandon, for as usual you have a plan ready.”

“Well, yes,” said Uncle Richard, smiling; “but it is due to the inventor. We must silver the glass, but on the surface, so as to get a reflection at once. Are you going to stay, Maxted?”

“If I may,” was the reply.

“Very well; but for experiment, as it is all new to me, I think we will try first to silver one of these pieces of the broken speculum. Yes; that largest piece.”

The conversation took place in the workshop, and the triangular piece of glass having been brought out, it was first thoroughly washed, and rinsed with rain-water, and then further cleaned by rubbing it well with a strong acid, so as to burn off any impurity, and after another rinsing in clear rain-water it was declared by Uncle Richard to be chemically clean.

“A good thing to be chemically as well as morally clean, Tom,” said the Vicar, smiling; “but I’m not going to stand here without asking questions if you don’t, Master Tom. First then, why must the glass be chemically clean?”

“So that the silver may adhere to it,” said Uncle Richard, who was now carefully arranging the freshly-cleaned glass, so that it lay on two pieces of wood in a shallow tray half full of water.

“My turn to question,” said Tom merrily.

“Yes, go on,” said the Vicar.

“Why is the face of the glass put in water, uncle?”

“To keep it wet and thoroughly clean. Dust or floating spores might settle upon it, and then we should have specks. I want to get a surface perfectly clear; and now, Tom, I want the four bottles I prepared yesterday – fetch them down.”

Tom ran up into the laboratory, and brought down four great stoppered bottles, each of which bore a label duly lettered.

These he placed on the broad, table-like bench, and on being requested hurried up-stairs again to fetch a large glass jar-shaped vessel, and a graduated measuring-glass.

“Now,” said Uncle Richard, “this process is a chemical experiment, but upon reading it I felt that it was as good as a conjuring trick, and a very grand one too. In fact it is good enough for a magician, for it is a wonderful example of the way in which our chemists have mastered some of the secrets of Nature.”

“Bravo, lecturer!” said the Vicar. “Come, Tom, my boy, give him some applause. Clap your hands and stamp your feet;” and the visitor led off by thumping his umbrella upon the floor.

“Oh, very well,” said Uncle Richard, laughing; “it shall be a lecture on silver if you like – a very brief one, with a remarkable experiment to follow.”

“More applause, Tom,” said the Vicar; and it was given laughingly.

“I have here,” continued Uncle Richard, “immersed in distilled water – ”

“Rain-water, uncle.”

“Well, boy, rain-water is distilled by Nature, and then condensed from the vapoury clouds to fall back upon the earth.”

“Good,” said the Vicar. “I am learning.”

“Next,” said Uncle Richard, “I have here a bottle marked A, containing so many grains of pure potash, dissolved in so many ounces of water – a strong alkaline solution in fact.”

More applause.

“In this next bottle,” continued Uncle Richard, “marked B, I have a strong solution of ammonia.”

“Another alkali?” said the Vicar.

“Exactly,” said Uncle Richard. “In this bottle, marked C, a solution of sugar-candy prepared with pure spirit. Can I have the pleasure of offering you a glass, Vicar?”

“Oh no, thanks,” was the reply. “I will not spoil the experiment by satisfying my desire for good things.”

“Will any other member of the audience?” said Uncle Richard merrily, looking round at Tom.

“I won’t, uncle, thankye,” said the lad. “You might have labelled the bottles wrongly.”

“Wise boy,” said the Vicar; “but, by the way, where’s the lump of beaten-out silver to be affixed to the glass?”

“Here it is,” said Uncle Richard, laying his hand upon the stopper of the fourth bottle, which held the same quantity of liquid as the others.

“But that’s clear water,” said Tom.

“Yes, clear distilled water, but not alone. It contains a great deal of silver.”

“Whereabouts, lecturer?” said the Vicar.

“In solution,” said Uncle Richard gravely. “Here we have one of the wonders of science laboriously worked out by experiment, and when discovered simplicity itself. Tom, suppose I take a piece of bright clear iron and leave it out exposed to all weathers, what happens?”

“Gets rusty,” said Tom.

“Exactly; and what is rust?”

“Red,” said Tom.

“So is your face, Tom, for giving so absurd an answer.”

“Yes, uncle,” said Tom frankly. “I don’t quite know.”

“Oxide of iron,” said the Vicar.

“Oh yes,” cried Tom eagerly; “I’d forgotten.”

“Well,” said Uncle Richard, “the oxide of iron is Nature’s action upon the iron. Man produces iron by heat from the ore, but unless great care is used to protect it from the action of the atmosphere, it is always going back to a state of nature – oxidises, or goes back into a salt of iron. That by the way; I am not dealing with a salt of iron but with a salt of silver. There it is, so many grains of a salt of silver, which looked like sugar-candy when I wetted it in the water, and, as you see now, here it is a perfectly colourless fluid. There, I have nearly done talking.”

“More applause, Tom,” said the Vicar merrily.

“Come, that’s hardly fair,” retorted Uncle Richard. “What would you say to us if we applauded when you said one of your sermons was nearly at an end?”

“But we did not applaud the announcement that you had nearly done,” said the Vicar, “but the fact that the experiment was nearly at hand.”

“Yes; that’s it, uncle. Go on, please,” cried Tom.

“Very well then: my experimental magic trick is this,” continued Uncle Richard. “I am about not to change a metal into a salt, but a salt – that salt in solution in the water – back into a metal – the invisible into the visible – the colourless water into brilliant, flashing, metallic silver.”

“The cannon-ball changed from one hat to the other is nothing to that, Tom Blount,” said the Vicar; “but we are the audience; let’s be sceptical. I’ll say it isn’t to be done.”

“Oh yes,” said Tom seriously. “If uncle says he’ll do it, he will.”

“Well done, boy,” said the Vicar, clapping the lad on the back. “I wish my parishioners would all have as much faith in my words as you have in your uncle’s. But silence in the audience. The lecturer will now proceed with the experiment.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Richard, taking the great glass jar. “Now watch the magical action of Nature, and see what is a great wonder. See, I pour eight ounces – fluid ounces, Tom, not weighed ounces – into the glass measure from this bottle. There: and pour them into this glass jar, which will hold eight times as much. From the next bottle I take an equal quantity and pour it into the jar; and from this bottle I take another equal quantity and pour it into the others. Shake them all up together, and I have so much liquid which looks like water, but, as you may have observed, one of them was the limpid silver solution.”

“Yes, I saw that,” said Tom.

“I didn’t,” said the Vicar; “but boys always do see the critical thing in the conjuring trick. But go on, Professor Brandon.”

“I must come to a halt here,” said Uncle Richard.

“No, no, don’t say that, uncle,” cried Tom. “You’ve raised us up to such a pitch of expectation.”

“Only for a few moments,” said Uncle Richard, “while I prepare my glass. Now then, when I lift out the piece, Tom, you take up the tray, and empty the water into the sink, and bring the empty tray back, place it where it was before, and then come and hold the glass here upon this blotting-paper to drain.”

All this was done as requested, and then the lecturer was set free by Tom holding the three-cornered piece of glass, from which nearly all the water had run.

“Now observe,” said Uncle Richard, “this is the critical point of the experiment. You see, I take this fourth bottle, and pour the same quantity of this clear liquid into my measure. There – done; and as long as I keep them separate no action takes place, but the moment I pour this clear liquid into that clear liquid, you will see that a change takes place. Look – I ought to say behold!”

The contents of the measure were poured into the glass jar.

“Gets cloudy and thick,” cried Tom.

“And thicker and thicker,” said the Vicar, as the contents of the jar were well shaken up, and then quickly poured into the tray.

“Now, Tom, the glass,” said Uncle Richard sharply; and, taking a couple of little pieces of wood, he placed them in the tray at the sides, and then seizing the piece of broken glass speculum with the tips of the fingers of each hand, he quickly immersed the polished face in the fourfold solution, letting one side go in first, and then the rest of the face, till the glass rested about half an inch deep in the tray, its face being perfectly covered all over.