“No, uncle,” said Rodd; “I did nothing, but just as the soldiers were coming up, and he’d been begging and praying me to save him, I just said that that would be a good place to hide.”
“Humph!” grunted Uncle Paul. “It was very wrong, my boy—very wrong; but look here, Pickle, is the poor fellow badly wounded?”
“No, uncle; only exhausted. He looked just like that hunted deer we saw the other day.”
“Hah!” said Uncle Paul, nodding his head. “Humph! Well, you know, my boy, it isn’t the thing, and we should be getting into no end of trouble if it were known. It’s against the law, you know, and if you had caught him and held him you would have got a big reward.”
Rodd got up and laid his hands upon his elder’s shoulders as he looked him fixedly in the eyes.
“I say, uncle,” he said, “you have been questioning me. It’s my turn now.”
“Yes, Pickle; I’ll play fair. It’s your turn,” said Uncle Paul. “What is it you want to say?”
“Only this, uncle. Would you have liked me to earn that reward?”
“Hah! I say, Pickle, my lad, would you like any more sandwiches?”
“No, uncle.”