Chapter Eight.
Helping the Fugitive.
Waller had managed so well that he had only a few yards to go; in fact, if the task had been undertaken by the tall gipsy-like woodland dweller, to whom he had referred as Bunny—a nickname, by the way, bestowed upon him by the boy from his rabbit-like habits, though they were more foxy, as Waller felt, but he liked him too well to brand him with such a name—it could not have been done better.
The next minute, with a vivid recollection of the pistol which had been thrust into the fugitive’s breast, the boy was creeping forward and listening, till, as he came nearer, he became aware of a deep stertorous breathing, almost a snore, and, closing up, he bent over, to lay one hand on the hidden pistol, so as to be well on his defence, while with the other he gently shook the deep sleeper.
Waller expected that the poor fellow would start up in wild affright, but his touch only resulted in a dull, incoherent muttering, and the shake had to be repeated two or three times before the fugitive slowly sat up and gazed at him vacantly, laying one hand upon his burning forehead the while.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “What is it?”
“I have come back,” said Waller. “Don’t you know me? Why, you are not half awake yet. It will be dark soon, quite dark by the time we get home, and I am going to take you there.”
The poor fellow passed his hand two or three times across his forehead, as if to clear away some mist that hindered his perceptions.