“What good would it do?” he rejoined. “Mr. Cunningham wouldn’t know of it, and he would bring the money. When he does that we shall be released at any rate.”
Amos Sanderson was impressed by this consideration, and no longer allowed his mind to dwell on plans of escape.
Meals were served to the captives twice a day. This was probably as often as the bandits ate themselves, for of all nations Italians are perhaps the least fond of the pleasures of the table, and probably eat scarcely more than half as much as an average Englishman or American. They treated their captives as well as themselves, but this did not satisfy Amos Sanderson, who from his boyhood had been a hearty eater.
“They might as well feed us on bread and water and be done with it,” he said. “When I get through eating I am just as hungry as before. It’s as bad as prison fare.”
“Well, Mr. Sanderson, we are prisoners, are we not?”
“But not convicts. They might remember that we are gentlemen.”
Bernard was not as much disturbed by the scanty fare as his companion. True, he would have liked more abundant meals, but he had patience and reflected that the present inconvenience would probably last only a short time. Nevertheless, he and Amos Sanderson counted the days, and every morning said to each other: “One more day is past. It won’t be long before Mr. Cunningham returns, and we are released.”
“If he does come back,” suggested Sanderson.
“Do you doubt that he is honorable?” asked Bernard angrily.
“Well, no; but the temptation is great. If he stays away he will be five thousand scudi in, and be his own master besides.”