There was no reply, and, hurriedly descending, Waller fetched candle and stick, to return and find the “something” that he had brought in from the forest fast asleep once more.
“Now we shall be all right,” he said. “I have got some supper for you. What, asleep again?” he continued, more gently. “Well, you had better lie down. Here, I say, have a nap on the bed. Get up, and I’ll help you. You had better undress.”
The poor fellow grasped a portion of his wishes, and rose mechanically, reeled to the bed, and fell across it with his legs trailing upon the floor; but a few minutes after, with his young host’s help, he was properly installed outside, dressed as he was, to sink at once into a deep, feverish sleep.
There was no suppering that night for the stranger, who slept on, muttering quickly at intervals, and was still sleeping when Waller stole up to his side again and again at intervals during what seemed to be an interminably long night; for though he pretended to go to bed, the boy could not sleep for more than an hour at a time, and when he did it was only to start up from some troubled dream connected with the incidents of the past day, for he was suffering badly from a new complaint—fugitive on the brain.
Chapter Nine.
In Hiding.
“What’s he doing now?” said Martha. “Isn’t going to be ill, is he?”
“Ill?” said Bella, contemptuously. “Not he!”