The Ocean Cats Paw | Page 3

and upward at the towering pile of rocks. "No, it isn't. It must be the beginning--the source, I suppose they call it. Yes, the stream begins here, comes right from under that cliff. Why, it's like a little cave out of which the water streams."
He stopped short and threw his fly once or twice without effect, and then, moved by curiosity, waded into the shallow rippling water, which rose a little way above his boots, but as it began to invade his trousers he rolled them up to his knees, before wading onward till he was stopped by the piled-up cliff face where the water came gliding out and rippled about his legs.
"Why, it ought to be quite cold," he muttered, "instead of which it is warm."
Then, standing up his rod so that the top rested among the stones, he stooped down, bending nearly double before he could pass in beneath a rough stony natural arch and slowly force his way along a narrow passage for a few feet, before stopping short where the water nearly reached his knees.
"Oh, I say! I am not going to break my back short off at the hips by squeezing in here," he grumbled. "Besides, it's all dark; and what's the good? Here, I know! This isn't the source. This tor is only a piled-up heap of stones, and I dare say if I go round I shall find the little river coming in on the other side, and this is where it comes out. Well, let it. Here, I want my lunch."
He made his way back into the sunshine where all was bright and clear again, and, taking his rod, stepped out to the edge of the pool, where the dry sand felt pleasant and comfortable to his feet, and there he went on fishing again with more or less success, till he passed out of the little amphitheatre to where the rocks fell away on either side, half hidden by the heath and furze.
"Must have got fifty by this time," muttered the boy. "Now just one more to make sure, and then I'll be off, and--Ugh! Who are you? How you made me jump!"
The Ocean Cat's Paw--by George Manville Fenn
CHAPTER TWO.
AFTER FRENCH PRISONERS.
There was some reason in Rodney Harding's words, for as he turned from the little river he had come suddenly face to face with a thin gaunt-looking lad of about his own age, very shabbily dressed and almost ragged, who was gazing at him fiercely, and stood with one hand as if about to strike. Recovering himself on the instant, Rodney, obeying his first impulse, began to loosen the bottom joint of his rod ready to use it as a weapon--a defence against the expected attack--but in an instant the strange new-comer dropped his hand to his side, turned quickly away to look outward across the moor, and then cried wildly, his voice sounding strange of accent, and husky as if from exhaustion--
"No, no, don't hit! I am so weak and so helpless. Help me. Tell me, which way can I go? They are close after me, and I can run no farther. Help!"
The poor wild-looking creature ended by sinking upon his knees amongst the heath, and raising his hands with a piteous gesture, while his imploring looks were quite sufficient to move the young fisherman's heart.
"Why, who are you?" he cried. "You are not a beggar."
"No, no! I confess. Oh, mon ami--I beg your pardon--sir! I forgot. I confess everything. It was for liberty; we were escaping, but the guard--the soldiers! They have been hunting us down like dogs."
"A French prisoner?" cried the boy.
"Ah, oui--yes, monsieur. It is my misfortune. But the soldiers. We have been separated."
"Who's `we'?" said Rodney sharply.
"My father and I. I don't know which way he has gone. They have taken him perhaps, and now it is no use; I may as well give up, for I can go no farther."
He sank sideways amongst the heath and fern.
Rodd looked at him in horror, for the poor fellow seemed as if he was about to faint with weakness and misery, while he kept giving utterance to hysterical gasps as he was plainly enough struggling hard to avoid bursting into a passion of weak girlish tears.
"Here, I say, don't do that!" cried Rodd, stooping and catching him by the arm to shake him violently. "You don't know that the soldiers have caught your father."
"No, but I feel sure that they must have done so," cried the poor fellow, rising a little and gazing wildly in the speaker's eyes, while Rodd's energy seemed to galvanise him into action.
"Well, suppose they have? They'd only take him back into the prison again, would they?"
"I--I don't know," faltered the lad. "I heard firing, and they may have shot him down and