“There you go again,” cried Waller pettishly. “Chains and blood! I say, do you know what you are talking about? Blood-money?”
“Yes; the reward for taking me.”
“Reward! For taking you?”
“Yes, where are your bloodhounds?”
“Well, you are a rum chap,” said Waller, laughing. “You talk like a fellow in a romance. We have no bloodhounds. We have a pointer, a water-spaniel, and a retriever. Why, what sort of an idea have you got in your head about bloodhounds hunting you?”
“I—I meant the soldiers,” said the poor fellow faintly: and his eyes began to close. “Let me sit up, please. I think I’m dying.”