“Hi, presto!” muttered Punch. “That’s what the conjuror said,” he continued to himself, “and it means, ‘Look sharp!’ Got it, comrade?”
“Yes,” came in Pen’s eager whisper.
“Oh, I say,” muttered Punch, “I don’t want my face washed!”
“Bonum! Presto!” whispered the priest, as Punch shrank back with his face dripping; and, pressing the boy into the opening, he closed the door upon him and then hurried to the cottage entrance, took down the bar, throw the door wide, and then began slowly to strike a light, after placing a lamp upon the rough table.
By this time Punch had reached the little loft-like chamber, where Pen was lying beside the water-vessel.
“What game’s this, comrade?” he whispered, breathless with his exertions.
“Hist! Hist!” came from below.
“It’s all very fine,” muttered Punch to himself; and he changed his position, with the result that the boards upon which he knelt creaked once more.
“Hist! Hist!” came again from below.
“Oh, all right then. I hear you,” muttered the boy; and he cautiously drew himself to where he could place his eye to a large hole from which a knot in the plank had fallen out, so that he could now see what was going on below.