Had he been obstreperous or quarrelsome, had he even asked questions as to Bobby's intentions, had he been irritable, the situation would have been more bearable; but he sat uncannily composed and amiable, and giving no hint of dissatisfaction with his position and no sign of revolt or evasion, with the exception of the tell-tale wandering of his eye every now and then towards the door.
Bobby's watch had run down, and Mr. Giveen had no timepiece, time being to him of no account, and, at an indeterminable hour, Mr. Dashwood, yawning, dragged his bed to the door by the light of the flickering fire and his prisoner retired to the bedroom, and, judging by the sound of snoring that soon filled the cottage, to sleep.
It was long past midnight, when Mr. Dashwood was aroused from sleep by cries from the night outside. The clouds had broken and a full moon was casting her light through the diamond panes of the window as, sitting up in bed, he strained his ears to listen.
It was Giveen's voice, and Giveen was shouting for help. He dragged the bed from the door, opened the door, and, without waiting to dress, rushed out into the night.
The cries were coming from the back of the cottage. Running round, he came upon the object of distress and the cause.
The front end of Mr. Giveen was protruding from the tiny window of the bedroom. This window had possessed a bar across it, which bar the prisoner, by a miracle of patience and dexterity, had removed. He had got his head and one arm and shoulder through, and there he was stuck.
"Help!" cried Mr. Giveen. "I'm stuck!"
"Try back!" cried Bobby. "Don't push forward, or you'll be stuck worse. What made you try to get out of that window, you sainted fool? It's not big enough for a child. Push back!"
"Back, is it?" cried the perspiring Giveen. "Back or front is all the same. I tell you I'm stuck for good. Help! Murder! Thieves!"