“Then you’re my prisoner.”
“Nonsense! Make Pan come.”
“Make him come? Yes, I just will, my lad. But, I say, to think o’ you two cutting yourselves adrift, and going off like that!”
“Don’t talk so, but bring Pan along. You needn’t be afraid, I shall not try to go.”
“Par—role, lad?”
“Yes, parole,” said Sydney.
“Ah, well, you are a gent, and I can trust you,” said Barney. “Now then,” he added, as he stirred up his son with the toe of his natty evening shoe; “get up.”
“No, no, no,” whined Pan.
“If you don’t get up I’ll kick you over the palings. Get up, you ugly young lubber, or I’ll—”
“Oh!” Pan winced, and rose to his knees, eagerly scanning his father’s hands in the gloom to see if the rope’s-end was visible.