He indicated the sofa, and quite gently but with decision freed his arm from the nervously gripping hands.
"You won't send me back?" the boy urged with quivering supplication.
"No, I won't do that," said Saltash as he went away.
He swore once or twice with considerable energy ere he returned, cursing the absent Antonio in language that would have outmatched the Italian's own. Then, having relieved his feelings, he abruptly laughed to himself and pursued his errand with business-like briskness.
Returning, he found his protégé in a small heap on the sofa, with his head deep in the cushion as though he sought escape from the light. Again the feeling of harbouring some small animal in pain came to him, and he frowned. The mute misery of that huddled form held a more poignant appeal than any words.
"Look here,—Toby!" he said. "I've brought you something to eat, and when you've had it you'd better get a sleep. You can tell me all about it—if you want to—in the morning."
The boy started upright at his coming. He looked at Saltash in his quick, startled way. It was almost as if he expected a kick at any moment. Then he looked at the tray he carried and suddenly his face crumpled; he hid it in his hands.
"Oh, dash it!" said Saltash. "Let's have a little sense!"
He set down the tray and flicked the fair head admonishingly, with his thumb, still frowning. "Come! Be a sport!" he said.
After a brief pause with a tremendous effort the boy pulled himself together and sat up, but he did not raise his eyes to Saltash again. He kept them fixed upon his hands which were tightly clasped in front of him.