Tom’s face fell. He forgot everything—even the untimely end of Cayley’s cow. While he had been feeding he had thought over a plan of escape. It was simple enough. As soon as the farmer and his wife had gone to bed he would slip out, get quietly down to the river bank, and if Dave had taken the boat across to the Pirate’s Camp, swim over and rejoin him.
But now this scheme was baulked. He was to be locked up for the night like a prisoner in a cell, perhaps only liberated on the morrow under strict surveillance, and his chance of escape reduced to a minimum. Meanwhile enquiries were to be made about him. He was not far away from home. Somebody would know of him, and he would be found out and ignominiously dragged back.
Then again, if he did not succeed in escaping quickly, Dave would probably find solitary pirating too lonesome, and give it up.
The farmer marched Tom off to bunk while he was reflecting over these things, and having seen him undress, gave him good-night, and told him to make himself comfortable. He turned the key as he went, taking the candle and Tom’s clothes with him. A few minutes after the prisoner heard the wooden shutters, with which the window, as in old-fashioned country houses, was provided, bang together, and the sounds which followed told him that they were being secured from the outside.
Tom sat on the bed-side in his shirt, the only garment which the farmer had left him, and pondered. It was an awkward fix.
Chapter VIII.
GEORGE OF THE “GREENWICH” GOES FISHING.
The little river-boat Greenwich was loading freight and passengers at one of the Grafton wharves.
Across the Clarence, on the south side, winches rattled bales of wool and bags of potatoes and maize into the coastal steamer, which traded weekly between Sydney and the fertile North Coast.