Wilfred knew too well the cry of "Thieves" was all humbug—a sham to get him away from his uncle.
"Forgill! Forgill!" he shouted. "Pête! Pête! Help me! help me!"
A pillow was tossed in his face.
"Don't cram the little turkey-cock with his own feathers," said a voice he was almost glad to recognize, for he could not feel that Mathurin would really hurt him. He kicked against his captor, and getting one hand free, he tried to grasp at this possible friend; but the corner of the pillow, crushed into his mouth, choked his shouts. "So it's Mathurin's own old babby, is it?" continued the deep, jovial voice. "Didn't I tell ye he was uncommon handy with his little fists? But he is a regular mammy's darling for all that. It is Mathurin will put the pappoose in its cradle. Ah! but if it won't lie still, pat it on its little head; Batiste can show you how."
In all this nonsense Wilfred comprehended the threat and the caution. His frantic struggles were useless. They only provoked fresh bursts of merriment. Oh, it was hard to know they were useless, and feel the impotency of his rage! He was forced to give in. They bound him in the sheets.
Mathurin was shouting for—
"A rabbit-skin,
To wrap his baby bunting in.
They took the rug from the floor and wrapped it round Wilfred. He was laid on the ironing board.
He felt the strong, firm straps that were binding him to it growing tighter and tighter.
What were they going to do with him? and where was Mr. De Brunier?