Again they commenced to struggle up the steep ascent, keeping along the edge of the water course.
"Where are you making for?" No. 303 demanded.
"Wistman's Wood, the other side of the Dart. A good place to hide if the fog lifts."
"Ain't no use hiding," the convict objected. "We must find a farm or a cottage where we can get a change of clothing and food. Then we may get a chance of slipping away. You say you know the moorland—then you must know the folk on it. Ain't there some one who would help us—or somewhere where we could hide ourselves? This is life or death, remember."
Rupert nodded, and once again he slackened speed and stopped. "Listen, 303. I don't want to escape, because I know it's impossible. All I hope is to get on the other side of Post Bridge to Blackthorn Farm—to my home."
His voice faltered a moment at the last word. "There is something I want to say to my father—if he's still alive. Something I must say. It's a matter of life or death to him, perhaps—and to my sister. When I've done that, delivered my message—why then I shall give myself up."
The muscles about 303's face contracted, his blue eyes clouded. For a little while he was silent, turning over in his mind what Rupert had said.
"You're balmy!" he growled eventually. "Crikey, what a chance! Why, if you gets home, they'll hide you, won't they—give you food and clothes and money? And I'll jolly well see that I gets the same too. We're going to see this thing through together."
Rupert sighed and shook his head: "Follow me, if you like; but it's not a bit of good. My father will give us both up."
He looked at 303 sadly. For months, perhaps for years, he knew this convict had only thought of, and planned, escape, dreamed of it day and night. The taste of freedom was sweet in his mouth already; he could not believe that they would not get clear away. It was no use trying to persuade him that he was attempting the impossible.