“Yes, that’s how I felt,” said Morny softly.
“I know about those trout on Dartmoor,” cried Rodd, “right up on the moor. I know somebody who used to go and fish there, and he told me that he could go and catch dozens and dozens and dozens of them whenever he liked. But they were so very small.”
“Yes,” said Morny, speaking dreamily now, with his eyes so lit up, that as Rodd watched his thin delicate face, he thought how handsome and well-bred he looked.
“Too good-looking for a boy, but more fitted for a girl,” he mused.
“And did you go and fish?” he cried, as he suddenly caught Morny’s eyes gazing at him questioningly.
“Oh yes. I went back to the prison and spoke to one of our guards—a frowning, fierce-looking fellow—and I told him how ill my father was, and that he never seemed as if he could eat the prison rations, as they called them, and that I wanted to try and catch some of the little fish on the moor and cook them, and try if I could tempt him with them.”
“And what did he say?” cried Rodd, for Morny had stopped.
“He made my heart feel on fire at first, for he growled out ‘Bah! Rubbish! There, go on in.’ ‘Savage!’ I said to myself. ‘Just like an Englishman!’”
“What a brute!” cried Rodd. “But I say, old chap, our fellows are not all like that.”
“No,” said Morny. “But I hadn’t done. Next minute he shouted after me, ‘Halt!’ and when I stopped and looked round he called out, ‘Ahoy! Jim!’ and another of the guards with his piece over his shoulder marched up to where we stood, and the man I had first spoken to turned to me and said, ‘Here, you tell him what you said to me.’”