“Oh, I say, what stuff! To call yourself a prisoner, when you are only a visitor here, and could come and go just as you like—at least, not quite, for it wouldn’t be safe; but it will be soon.”
“What’s that coil of new rope for?”
“That?” cried Waller. “Oh, that’s a new rope for my drag-net. The old one was quite worn out. You shall help me to fit this on if you like.”
“Thank you. I’ll help you if you wish.”
“Well, I do wish, when you get well; but I don’t care to see you in the dumps like this. Of course I know what it is: it’s being shut up in this room for so long. A few good walks in the forest would make you as right as could be.”
“Yes,” said the lad wearily. “I feel as if I should like to be out again, for I often think when I am shut up here that it’s like being a bird in a cage.”
“Ah, you won’t feel that long,” said Waller.
It was the very next day when, after taking his new friend a selection of what he considered interesting books, Waller announced that he should not come upstairs again till the evening, for he had several things to do, and among others to write a letter to his father in London, and then take it to the village post-office for despatch.
“I don’t think that either of the maids is likely to come up,” said Waller, at parting; “but if they should try the door, all you have got to do is to keep quite still. Of course, you will lock yourself in as soon as I am gone. Shall I bring you anything else to eat before I go?”
“No,” said the lad, with a weary look of disgust. “You bring me too much as it is; more than I care to have. Don’t bring me any more till I ask.”