“No, no, last thing to-night, just before you come, and don’t ring, only drop the thing in the letter-box.”
“All right. Didn’t I get my arm wet! There, I’m going home to get it dry, and put the rest of my things ready. Mind you bring yours all right.”
Dexter did not answer, but his companion’s words made him feel very low-spirited, for he had a good deal in his mind, and he stood listening to Bob, as that young worthy went off, whistling softly, to make his final preparations for the journey down the river to sea, and then to foreign lands, and the attempt seemed now to begin growing very rapidly, till it was like a dense dark cloud rising higher and higher, and something seemed to keep asking the boy whether he was doing right.
He felt that he was not, but, at the same time, the idea that he was thoroughly misunderstood, and that he would never be happy at the doctor’s, came back as strongly as ever.
“They all look upon me as a workhouse boy,” he muttered, “and Bob’s right. I’d better go away.”
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Preparations for Flight.
Dexter listened till Bob Dimsted’s whistle died away, and then stole from the place of appointment to go back to the house, where he struck off to the left, and made his way into the loft, where he took a small piece of candle from his pocket, lit it, and set it in an old ginger-beer bottle.