And, to tell the truth, I was not sorry to see Tom's hearty face. He had stayed away from evening service to sit with his mother. "I say, Tom, did you see any fellow on the snow there, as you came in?" "On the snow where?" asked Tom. "There; just before the shrubs." And I pointed the spot out to him, and told him what had happened. Tom, one of the most practical fellows living, more so, I think, than even Tod, and with less imagination than an ostrich, received the account with incredulity. "You dropped asleep, Johnny, and fancied it." "I did not drop asleep, and I did not fancy it. When you came into the garden I was about to open the window and call to him." "Those headaches are downright stupefying things, Johnny. Jane has them, you know. One day I remember she fell asleep with a bad one, and woke up and said the sofa was on fire." "Tom, I tell you the man was there. A tall, strong-looking fellow, with a beard. He was staring at the house with all his might, at this room, as it seemed to me, wanting to come forward, I think, but afraid to. He kept close to the laurels, as if he did not wish to be seen, forgetting perhaps that they were white and betrayed him. When you opened the gate, he was there." "It's odd, then, where he could have put himself," said Tom Coney, not giving in an inch. "I'll vow not a soul was there, man or woman, when I came up the path." "That's true. He vanished in a moment. Whilst I was looking at him he disappeared." "Vanished! Disappeared! You talk as though you thought it a ghost, Johnny." "Ghost be hanged! It was some ill-doing tramp, I expect, trying to look if he might steal into the house." "Much you know of the ways of tramps, Johnny Ludlow! Tramps don't come showing themselves on snow-lighted, open lawns, in the face and eyes of the front windows: they hide themselves in obscure hedges and byways. It's a case of headachy sleep, young man, and nothing else." "Look here, Tom. If the man was there, his footprints will be there; if he was not, as you say, the snow will be smooth and level: come out and see." We went out at once, Tom catching up a stick in the hall, and crossed the lawn. I was right, and Tom wrong. Sure enough, there were the footprints, plenty of them, indented in the deep snow. Tom gave in then. "I wish to goodness I had seen him! The fellow should not have got off scot-free, I can tell him that. What tremendous feet he must have! Just look at the size, Johnny. Regular crushers." "Don't you go and say again I was asleep! He must have stepped back and got away through these laurels; yes, here are the marks. I say, Tom"--dropping my voice to a whisper--"perhaps he's here now." "We'll soon see that," said Tom Coney, plunging amidst the laurels with a crash, and beating about with the stick.