“So shall I, Samson, if you talk like that. Now, I cannot ask my father for leave to go across to the Manor without his questioning me as to why I wish you to go. You must get leave to go, so do what is necessary and get off at once.”
“Don’t you fear about that, Master Fred. And about poor Sir Godfrey, Master Scar, and that brother of mine? They must be terribly hungry.”
“They must wait. We cannot go near them to-day. What we left must do, and they will be watching the more eagerly for us, all ready?”
“Then you mean it to-night, sir, without fail?”
“Without fail, Samson. Sir Godfrey must be got away to-night.”
“Rope, wittles, blankets, and anything they like,” said Samson, as he parted from his master; and after hesitating a little about asking leave to quit the camp, he came to the conclusion that it would be wiser to get permission from his officer to fish, and then, after selecting a spot where the trees overhung the water, steal off through the wood.
This he proceeded to put in force at once, to be met with a stern rebuff from the officer in question, a sour-looking personage, who refused him point-blank, and sent Samson to the right-about, scratching his head.
“This is a nice state of affairs, this is!” he grumbled to himself. “Here’s Master Fred, thinking me gone off to carry out his orders, and I’m shut up like a blackbird in a cage. Whatever shall I do? It’s no use to ask anybody else.”
Samson had another scratch at his head, and then another, and all in vain; he could not scratch any good idea into it or out of it; and at last, in sheer despair, he walked slowly away, with the intention of evading the outposts, and, being so well acquainted with the country round, dodging from copse to coombe, and then away here and there till he was beyond the last outpost, when he could easily get to the Manor.
Now, it had always seemed one of the easiest things possible to get out of camp. So it was in theory—“only got to keep out of the roads and paths, cross the fields and keep to the moor, and there you are.”