“Well, you know what Molly is, Tod. Let half a grain of suspicion arise, and it might betray him. If she saw us rifling her larder, she would go straight to the Squire; and what excuse should we have?”
“Look here, Johnny. I’ll go out fishing to-morrow, you understand, and order her to make a lot of meat pasties.”
“But he must have something to eat to-morrow morning, Tod: he might die of hunger, else, before night.”
Tod nodded. He had little more diplomacy than the Squire, and would have liked to perch himself upon the highest pillar in the parish there and then, and proclaim Fred Westerbrook’s innocence.
We stole round to the kitchen. Supper was over, but the servants were still at the table; no chance of getting to the larder then. Molly was in one of her tempers, apparently blowing up Thomas. There might be more chance in the morning.
Morning light. Tod went downstairs with the dawn, and I followed him. Not a servant was yet astir. He laid hold of a great tray, lodged it on the larder-floor, and began putting some things upon it—a cold leg of mutton and a big round loaf.
“I can’t take in all that, Tod. It is daylight, you know, and eyes may be about: old Bumford’s are sure to be. I can only take in what can be concealed in my pockets.”
“Oh, bother, Johnny! You’d half famish him.”
“Better half famish him than betray him. Some slices of bread and meat will be best—thick sandwiches, you know.”