“Quite a romance,” replied Chumbley; “but never mind. We shall know what our ransom is to be to-night.”
“I wonder whether Harley is taking steps to find us?”
“Sure to be, unless he thinks we are drowned,” replied Chumbley. “There’s no knowing. I believe my hat went floating down the river.”
“I hope not,” said Hilton. “If he thought that he would not search for us.”
“Not till he heard about the ransom. I say, old fellow, I’m tired of smoking, I wonder whether they have a billiard table, or chess?”
“Pshaw.”
“Well, then, a pea-rifle to pot the birds.”
“Very likely,” said Hilton, drily, as they sat by the open window, looking out at the soft shadows of the coming night.
“I’d give something to know really why we are boxed up here,” said Chumbley, after a long silence. “It can’t be anything connected with the station, or I should be in a terrible fidget. It must be something to do with us alone.”
“Yes,” replied Hilton; “but it is all darkness at present.”