“Hah!” said Uncle Paul, at last; “it is a drawback to this beautiful place. The colours of the heath are glorious, and the views from up here are grand. I got some good specimens too, ready for our microscopic work to-night; and that was a nice trout you caught. How many did you get, boy?”
“Only one, uncle,” said the boy vacantly.
“What!”
“I didn’t see the other, uncle.”
Uncle Paul drew a deep breath and fixed the boy with his eyes, as he said quietly—
“I asked you how many trout you got, Pickle.”
“Oh, about fifty, uncle. Creel’s half full.”
“Ah! Then we will have some for high tea to-night, and some for breakfast in the morning, and give our landlady the rest. Nice woman that; full of stories about the prisoners, and Bony and his wretched scum. Ugh! The very name of the rascal raises my bile, and— There, I think I had better take you home and give you a dose.”
“Yes, let’s go on back now, uncle,” said the boy eagerly, “but indeed, indeed I don’t want a dose.”
“Humph! Then pray why did you grip hold of my arm again like that, and stare across yonder over my shoulder as if you could see a raven hiding in one of the holes?”