“There,” he said, “I must be going back now. There isn’t much left, but I must have the empty basket. You had better lie down here and have a good rest, and I will come back to you in the evening and see if I can’t think out some way of helping you to get down to Lymington.”
“To Lymington? Yes!” cried the boy eagerly; for now that he was somewhat refreshed the light seemed to come back into his eyes, and a certain eagerness into his whole aspect. “But, look here,” he said, “a little while ago I thought I had nothing to do but lie down and die; now you have made me feel as if I want to live. Could you—can you find out whether there are any soldiers near?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll try,” said Waller. “But I say, talk about soldiers—we never picked up that pistol, and I don’t believe we could find it now.”
“Here it is,” said the lad, pointing to his breast. “I crawled about till I found it after you had gone.”
“Then you had better give it to me to put away. Pistols are nasty things.”
Waller held out his hand, but the lad shrank back, with a suspicious look.
“Oh, very well,” said Waller, rising; “don’t trust me unless you like.”
“I do trust you,” cried the lad eagerly; and, snatching out the pistol, he pressed it into the other’s hand.
“There, they will be wondering what has become of me,” cried Waller. “I will come back and see you in the evening, and by then I shall have thought of somewhere for you to hide to-night. Good-bye.”
Waller hurried off, thinking deeply to himself, and making the best of his way for about a hundred yards.