Not I. Nobody couldn't hit
him with stick or stone neither. Keepers can't even hit him with their
guns, or he'd been a dead 'un long ago. He's the slipperest dog as ever
was."

"_Hy--yow--ow--oo--ooo_!" came from a distance--a pitiful cry that was
mournful in the extreme.

"Hear that, sir?"

Before Tom could answer the gardener went on--

"So you had the trap-door atop busted open, did yer, sir?"

"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 blusterous 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-cock 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, glass 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