Sargon sat quite still. He knew all along they would come for him.
It was Bobby, close at hand now and crying out, “Sargon! It is you! Sargon!” Sargon did not wait for him. He turned about and scrambled and dropped off the wall. They clasped hands. “You have come to fetch me?”
“I was in despair. I didn’t dream you understood me. I’m all amazed.... Let me think; what are we to do? This is splendid. My motor bicycle is in the inn. Nuisance that. Yes, come along. I must hide you somewhere and fetch it. Then we will get away. I didn’t think you’d have no clothes. Clothes? Won’t show much. Cold? May be cold. I’ll get a rug. There’s a rug in the side-car.”
He led the way back up the slope, glancing ever and again at the asylum fields. Sargon trotted beside him, calmly confident in God and Bobby, with the limitless docility of one who trusts his servant.
§ 6
Bobby’s mind was fresh and bright that morning. He had wandered out to the asylum simply because he could lie in bed in a fever of regrets no longer. His extreme luck in encountering Sargon had restored all his confidence in himself and in the propitiousness of things. He made his plans quickly and with decision. It would be impossible to take Sargon back to the inn and give him coffee. So soon as he was missed they would surely go to the village. And every one would note this queer little figure with its dressing-gown and slippers and scarred ankles. He must get the little man into hiding somewhere close at hand. In that small beech-wood just over the next crest. (Pity he was so scantily clad!) Then the motor bicycle must be fetched as quickly as possible.
Sargon was absolutely trustful and obedient. “It is cold I know,” said Bobby, “but unavoidable. I wish there were not so many wet dead leaves.”
“Only be quick and fetch help,” said Sargon.
“Don’t stir from here,” said Bobby.
It was not the most perfect hiding-place in the world, a ditch, a clump of holly on the edge of a bare beech-wood, but it was all that downland was likely to provide. “So long,” said Bobby and set off at a smart trot for the inn and the motor bicycle. He arrived flushed, dishevelled, and out of breath and found the inn suspicious and reluctant when he announced that he wanted his bill instantly, refused any breakfast but a cup of tea and a chunk of bread and butter, and set about packing his little roll. There seemed endless things to do, taking an interminable time. To cap a score of irritating delays the inn was short of change and had to send out to the village shop. Billy’s motor bicycle, always a temperamental creature, gave great trouble with its kick starter. And meanwhile Sargon was shivering amidst the mud and dead leaves under the dripping trees or worse, being recaptured and led back into captivity.