“See him, sir?” whispered Samson, as he stood gazing in a startled fashion in the same direction. “Oh, Master Fred, sir,” he burst out, “don’t, don’t say the poor lad’s dead. Nat, Nat, old chap, not without one good-bye grip of the hand.”
“No, no, no,” gasped Fred, half dragging his companion back.
“Not dead, sir?” panted Samson.
“No, no, no!”
“And you couldn’t see him, sir?”
“No.”
“Then what do you mean by serving a fellow like that?” muttered Samson to himself. “I didn’t think I could make such a fool of myself—about an enemy, too.”
“Samson,” whispered Fred, excitedly, “can I trust you?”
“No, sir. ’Tarn’t likely,” growled the man, morosely. “I’m sartain to go and tell tales everywhere, and blab it all out, whatever it is.”
“No, no; I don’t believe you, lad. You always were true as steel, Samson.”