“Yes, sir.”
“You won’t be afraid to remain here alone?”
“Afraid!” exclaimed Tom. “I hope not. I should be ashamed of myself if I were.”
“I shall leave my revolver, and I expect you to use it if necessary. Do you understand its use?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I have no further directions to give. I cannot tell exactly how many days I shall be absent.”
“Don’t hurry home, sir. All will go well.”
“It’s odd how much confidence I have in that boy,” said Mr. Burton to himself. “He says he is only sixteen, but he’s as cool and self-reliant as a man of twenty-five. He has been well educated, too, I judge from his manners and conversation. I feel fortunate in securing him.”
On the fourth night after Mr. Burton’s departure, Tom went to bed at his usual hour. His bed was made up on the floor, about the center. He was unusually fatigued, and this no doubt accounted for his sleeping sounder than common. Something roused him at last. At first he thought, in his bewilderment, that it was Mr. Burton who had shaken him, but he was quickly undeceived.
Lifting his head, he saw a sinister face, rough and unshaven, bending over him.