“Oh!” George paced the room. What did the vile boy think now? “Oh, well, what do you think it is now?”
“I believe it's the cat wot's in the piper.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Yes, this was a very horrible position indeed. “Oh, you do, do you? Now, you listen to me, my lad: unless you want your head cut right off you sit still without a sound.”
The red-headed Pinner boy sat quite still; wept softly. Life, at the moment, was a bitter affair for this boy.
II.
George paced. The hideous nightmares of the morning had returned now—snorting, neighing, trampling iron-shod; stampeding in hideous irresistible rushes. This was the beginning of the end. He was discovered—his' secret out.
Flight—immediate flight—that was the essential course. Par-par, thanks to sweet heaven, was at a chapel meeting. The thing could be done. A timetable upon the mantelpiece told him that a down-train left the station at 8.35. It was now eight. Better a down-train than an up. The further from London the less chance of this infernal Daily with its Country House Outrage. Examining the time-table he determined upon Temple Colney—an hour's run. He had been there once with Bill.
But what of this infernal red-headed Pinner boy? In agony wrestling with the question, George every way ran into the brick wall fact that there was no method of stopping the vile boy's mouth. The red head must be left behind to shriek its discovery to par-par. All that could be done was to delay that shriek as long as possible.
George packed his small hand-bag; placed upon the table money to pay his bill; lifted the crime-stained basket; addressed the red-headed Pinner boy:
“Stop that sniffling. Take that bag. You are to come with me. If you make a sound or try to run away you know what will happen to you. What did I tell you would happen?”