Ian respected the child’s secret and asked no further. “Well, I shall be very anxious until you come back; you cannot do it in a day. Where will you sleep? It is getting late in the year.”
“Oh! I shall manage somehow,” said the boy. “I shall start to-morrow forenoon, Wednesday, and shall be back on Thursday soon after noon.”
“Then if you are not back, I shall be very nervous about you and shall come after you.”
“No, do not do that, Master; I shall be all right.”
Ian was not satisfied, but he let the boy set off early the following morning.
Wilfred trudged away along the road without mishap, resting now and then and taking it easily, as he did not want to arrive before dusk. A little after sunset he arrived at the outskirts of the farm and made his way cautiously to the hollow tree. He looked round carefully, but no one was about. He then crept into the tree and felt in the corner for a pile of stones. In this was concealed a small wooden box. He took out the box and drew from it a packet wrapped in oiled canvas; within this was another with the open edges thickly smeared with tallow.
He took that off also and within was another piece of oiled canvas, but the packet was now small enough to go into his pouch, where he put it without opening it. “It would be too dark to see it,” he said to himself.
“I think I shall sleep here, it is as good as anywhere.” He waited until he was certain that no one was about and came out from the tree to gather leaves with which to make a bed and then he lay down.
Excitement and cold, however, kept him awake for hours and it was not till far on in the night that he fell asleep. When he awoke it was broad day, although still early. “I have slept too long,” he thought; “it was a pity I did not fall asleep earlier.” He peeped out and there was nobody in sight, so he softly stole away toward the road.