“But I don’t want you to have done.”
“Why, you forbade me to touch upon what you call dangerous ground.”
“Bah! That’s another thing. I don’t want you to be grateful. But of course I like to hear about you going fishing. I could almost wish that you and I could go and have a few hours together on Dartmoor now.”
“And we cannot,” said Morny quietly.
“No; but we might try for bonito or dolphins. But go on. I want you to tell me about how you got on. Did you go to that prison guard two hours before sundown?”
“Oh yes. He was as friendly as ever he could be, just because he found that I was fond of fishing, and lent me his rod and line and flies that he made himself, and told me the best places to go to, and he was as pleased as I was when I came back to the prison with a dozen and a half of little trout. Oh, I remember so well almost every word he said.”
“Well, what did he say?” cried Rodd eagerly.
“Oh, he was a good-humoured droll fellow, though he looked so gruff, for when I showed him my fish he slapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Well done, young ’un! You are one of the right sort after all.’ And then he told me to take the fish into his quarters, and his missus, as he called her, would cook them for me so that I could take them to my sick father; and when I thanked him he said it was all right, and that he and his ‘missus’ had been talking together about how bad the French captain looked, and that I had better get him a nice little dish like that as often as I could.”
Morny stopped again, and Rodd gazed at him impatiently.
“Here, I say,” he cried, “what a tantalising sort of chap you are! Why, I could tell a story better than you.”