His aunt seemed to wish Jack might be leathered now, and to be angry with her husband for not revenging her injuries; for an injury it was that the boy had done her in letting the water all run off, and that on the very eve of the washing day. The mother grumbled as she left off mopping the wet floor, and went to the fire to stir it up ready for the kettle, without a word of greeting to her little nephew, or of welcome to her husband. On the contrary, she complained of the trouble of getting tea ready afresh, just when she had put slack on the fire, and had no water in the house to fill the kettle with. Her husband grew angry, and Tom was frightened to hear his uncle speaking sharply. “If I can’t have a cup of tea in my own house without all this ado, I’ll go to the Spread Eagle, and take Tom with me. They’ve a bright fire there at all times, choose how they manage it; and no scolding wives. Come, Tom, let’s be off.” Jack had been trying to scrape acquaintance with his cousin by winks and grimaces behind his mother’s back, and now made a sign of drinking out of an imaginary glass. But Tom clung to his uncle, and softly pulled him down again on his chair, from which he had risen to go to the public-house. “If you please, ma’am,” said he, sadly frightened of his aunt, “I think I could find the pump, if you’d let me try.” She muttered something like an acquiescence; so Tom took up the kettle, and, tired as he was, went out to the pump. Jack, who had done nothing but mischief all day, stood amazed, but at last settled that his cousin was a “softy.” When Tom came back, he tried to blow the fire with the broken bellows, and at last the water boiled, and the tea was made. “Thou’rt a rare lad, Tom,” said his uncle. “I wonder when our Jack will be of as much use.” This comparison did not please either Jack or his mother, who liked to keep to herself the privilege of directing their father’s dissatisfaction with his children. Tom felt their want of kindliness towards him; and now that he had nothing to do but rest and eat, he began to feel very sad, and his eyes kept filling with tears, which he brushed away with the back of his hand, not wishing to have them seen. But his uncle noticed him. “Thou had’st better have had a glass at the Spread Eagle,” said he, compassionately. “No; I only am rather tired. May I go to bed?” said he, longing for a good cry unobserved under the bed-clothes. “Where’s he to sleep?” asked the husband of the wife. “Nay,” said she, still offended on Jack’s account, “that’s thy look-out. He’s thy flesh and blood, not mine.” “Come, wife,” said uncle John, “he’s an orphan, poor chap. An orphan is kin to every one.” She was softened directly, for she had much kindness in her, although this evening she had been so much put out. “There’s no place for him but with Jack and Dick. We’ve the baby, and the other three are packed close enough.”