Ocky’s voice came in a hopeless whisper. “Are you, Peter? But how—— how?”
“You remember the loft above the stable I told you about? No one goes there but Kay and myself—it’s our secret. It’s too cold for Kay to go there now. Mr. Grace and I are going to help you over the wall; then you must climb into the loft the way I once showed you and lie quiet. To-morrow I’ll come to you as soon as I can and bring you whatever I can get.”
“You’re a good boy, Peter. You’re a ha’penny marvel; I always said you were.”
The whisper was hoarse, but no longer hopeless.
Suddenly the door was jerked open irritably. “‘Ere, make ‘aste. Come h’out of it, you in there.”
When Peter and his uncle had obeyed orders, the cab was backed up against the tall doors which gave entrance to the yard of the stable.
“Get h’up on the roof o’ me keb, climb onter the top o’ the doors and see if yer kin drop h’over.” Mr. Grace spoke gruffly.
Ocky did as he was bidden but, either through timidity or weakness, failed to scramble from the cab on to the top of the doors. Mr. Grace growled impatiently and muttered something explosive at each failure. Now that he was in mid-act of contriving against the law, he was anxious to be rid of the adventure.
Ocky excused himself humbly. “I’m not the man I was. I’ve had my troubles.”
“To ‘ell with yer troubles! They cawn’t be no worse’n mine; if yer want ter know wot trouble is, taik a week o’ bein’ father ter my darter—— Kum on, Peter, you and me’s got ter chuck ‘im h’over.”