We let H. O. take the letter; it was only fair, as it was his blood it was written with, and told him to leave it next door for Mrs Morrison.
H. O. came back quite quickly, and Albert-next-door’s uncle came with him.
‘What is all this, Albert?’ he cried. ‘Alas, alas, my nephew! Do I find you the prisoner of a desperate band of brigands?’
‘Bandits,’ said H. O; ‘you know it says bandits.’
‘I beg your pardon, gentlemen,’ said Albert-next-door’s uncle, ‘bandits it is, of course. This, Albert, is the direct result of the pursuit of the guy on an occasion when your doting mother had expressly warned you to forgo the pleasures of the chase.’
Albert said it wasn’t his fault, and he hadn’t wanted to play.
‘So ho!’ said his uncle, ‘impenitent too! Where’s the dungeon?’
We explained the dungeon, and showed him the straw pallet and the ewer and the mouldering crusts and other things.
‘Very pretty and complete,’ he said. ‘Albert, you are more highly privileged than ever I was. No one ever made me a nice dungeon when I was your age. I think I had better leave you where you are.’
Albert began to cry again and said he was sorry, and he would be a good boy.