Hopeless," said the Vicar. "Too loose and shambling. As it is,
metaphorically, every one throws stones at the lad; no one ever gives
him a kind word."

"No, but who can? I'm afraid you must give him up, Maxted, as a
hopeless case."

"I will not," said the Vicar firmly. "It's my duty to try and make a
decent member of society of the lad if I can, and I'm sorry you cannot
give me a hint."

"So am I," said Uncle Richard seriously, "but I look upon him as
hopeless. I tried again and again, till I felt that the only thing was
to chain him up, and beat and starve him into submission, and it seemed
to me that it would be better to let him run wild than attempt to do
that."

"Yes; I agree with you," said the Vicar. "Tom. Come, Tom, you're a
boy. Boys understand one another better than men understand them.
Can't you help me?"

"I wish I could, sir," said Tom, shaking his head, "but I'm afraid I
can't."

Then the conversation turned to astronomical matters, and soon after the
Vicar left.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

That conversation took root in Tom's mind. He found himself thinking a
good deal about Pete Warboys and his devotion to his hideous old
grandmother; but it was hard work to believe that he had any of the good
in him that the Vicar talked about.

"Wonder whether he really has," Tom said to himself. "He might have."

The idea began to grow, and it spread.

"What would they say if I tried to alter him, and got him to turn into a
decent chap?"

He laughed at his own conceit directly after.

"He'd laugh at me too," thought Tom; and then something else took his
attention. But the idea was there, and was always cropping up. He
found himself talking to David about the lad one day when he was down
the garden, and David left off digging potatoes, took a big kidney off
one of the prongs of the potato fork, upon which it was impaled, split
it in two, and began thoughtfully to polish the tool with the piece he
retained.

"Do I think as you might make a decent chap out of Pete Warboys, Master
Tom, by being kind to him?"

"Yes."

"Do I think as you could make a silk puss out of a sow's ear, Master
Tom; and then cut this here yellow bit o' tater into sovereigns and put
in it? No, sir, I don't. Pete's a bad 'un, and you can't make a good
'un out of him."

"Not if he was properly taught?"

"Tchah! you couldn't teach a thing like him. It'd all run through him
like water through a sieve."

"But