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“Why?”
There was something about Tom that made you want to be honest with him, John thought. He hoped they could be friends. He would like that very much. But Tom had to know the truth first. That was the only way it could be. And so, although his heart sank, John proceeded to tell it. “I like snakes,” he said. “They’re quite interesting. And when we were last in London, I found a shopkeeper who sells exotic animals. He had a boa constrictor!” John’s enthusiasm for his subject swelled. “A sailor brought it back from the Americas. Fed it on rats on the ship. It was a quite small specimen, really, and they’re not poisonous.”
“Boa constrictor,” repeated Tom as if interested in the sound of the words. “That’s a kind of snake?”
John nodded. “So I bought it and sneaked it home. To observe and learn, you know. But it got loose from its cage somehow and it…” He stopped, swallowed, and then rushed on. “It ate my little sister’s new kitten.” Here was the depth of his disgrace. John saw again the horror in his sisters’ eyes, heard the heartbroken weeping. He cringed.
“Yer joking.”
John looked for signs of disgust in Tom’s face, and found none. He shook his head.
“Ate it, you say? I’d think a kitten could outrun a snake.”
“Constrictors throw their coils around their prey and crush them before they swallow them.” The kitten’s tail, still protruding from his snake’s mouth, had been the terrible, irrefutable evidence that sealed both their fates.
“Garn!”
“I never meant it to get near the kitten! Indeed, I don’t know how it escaped my cage. I promise you the wire mesh was quite sturdy.”
Tom nodded. “What happened to him?”
“Who?”
“The snake.”
“Oh. One of the gardeners killed it. With a hoe. Chopped it into four pieces.” John felt a lingering sadness at this summary execution.
“Huh.”
There was no sign of withdrawal on Tom’s homely face. John’s relief made him brave. He drew in a breath and took the risk. “What’s Lord Macklin?” he asked.
“What d’you mean?”
“What’s his rank?”
“Ah. He’s an earl.”
John’s mind worked. “If I told Wrayle that you’re here with an earl, perhaps his ward, he’d likely give me permission to go for a walk. Wrayle’s a dreadful snob.”
“I ain’t his ward,” replied Tom. He seemed to dislike the idea.
“No.” Disappointment threatened to engulf John. “But Lord Macklin is feeding and housing you, isn’t he?”
“For the present.”
“And you’re not a servant. He doesn’t pay you wages?”
“No. Didn’t want ’em.”
“So you’re practically his ward. Let me tell Wrayle.” John didn’t wish to beg, but he found this was terribly important.
“Well.” Tom pursed his lips. “I suppose it’s all right.”
“I’ll speak to him when we get back.” John’s spirits soared. “Perhaps we could go walking tomorrow?”
Tom nodded. “I’ll come ’round and fetch you.”
Three
