The Ocean Cats Paw | Page 7

those French
prisoners."
"Uncle!"
"Yes, sir. Why did you pinch my arm--twice? Now then, honour!"
"I--I--You were talking about Bonaparte."
"Well, what of that?"
"I was afraid he'd hear you, uncle."

"What!" cried the other, and his mouth opened wide. "Bony! Here?"
"No, uncle, of course not, but one of the young prisoners. He was
escaping."
"And you--you have turned traitor to your King, and been hiding a
prisoner of war from his guard! Why, you young scoundrel! You lied to
that sergeant, and said you hadn't seen them."
"I didn't, uncle!" cried the boy hotly. "It was you."
"Eh? What?" roared the elder. "You dare to! Eh?--Ah--so I did! But
then I didn't know."
"No, uncle, and if you had seen and heard the poor lad as I did, I am
sure you wouldn't have betrayed him."
"Betray! It isn't betraying, sir, to give up a prisoner of war."
"I felt as if it would be, uncle, under such circumstances," said Rodd,
who began noting that his uncle had lowered his voice, and that his
angriest words had been uttered in a whisper.
"Look here, my boy," he said now quite softly, "I knew that there was
something up, or you would have been wolfing more than your share of
those sandwiches. I saw you keep squinting at that hole over yonder. So
you have hid him away there?"
"No, uncle," said Rodd; "I did nothing, but just as the soldiers were
coming up, and he'd been begging and praying me to save him, I just
said that that would be a good place to hide."
"Humph!" grunted Uncle Paul. "It was very wrong, my boy--very
wrong; but look here, Pickle, is the poor fellow badly wounded?"
"No, uncle; only exhausted. He looked just like that hunted deer we
saw the other day."
"Hah!" said Uncle Paul, nodding his head. "Humph! Well, you know,

my boy, it isn't the thing, and we should be getting into no end of
trouble if it were known. It's against the law, you know, and if you had
caught him and held him you would have got a big reward."
Rodd got up and laid his hands upon his elder's shoulders as he looked
him fixedly in the eyes.
"I say, uncle," he said, "you have been questioning me. It's my turn
now."
"Yes, Pickle; I'll play fair. It's your turn," said Uncle Paul. "What is it
you want to say?"
"Only this, uncle. Would you have liked me to earn that reward?"
"Hah! I say, Pickle, my lad, would you like any more sandwiches?"
"No, uncle."
"Then isn't it about time we began to make for home?"
Uncle Paul rose and led the way down-stream, gazing straight before
him, and though he must have seen, he took no notice of the fact that
Rodd did not throw the strap of his creel of fish over his shoulder, but
left it by the side of the stone, along with the wallet, through whose
gaping mouth a second packet of big sandwiches could still be seen.
CHAPTER THREE.
MRS. CHAMPERNOWNE'S PAN.
Mr Robson, when he came up from Plymouth for a natural history
expedition into Dartmoor, did not select a hotel for his quarters, for the
simple reason that such a house of accommodation did not exist, but
took what he could get--a couple of tiny bedrooms in the cottage of a
widow whose husband had been a mining captain on the moor; and
there after a long tramp they returned on the evening after the
adventure, to find their landlady awaiting them at the pretty

rose-covered porch, eager and expectant and ready to throw up her
hands in dismay.
"Why, where are the fish?" she cried--"the trout?"
"Eh?" said Uncle Paul.
"The fish, sir--the fish. I've got a beautiful fire, and the lard ready in the
pan. I want to go on cooking while you both have a good wash. You
told me that you would be sure to bring home a lot of trout for your
supper, and I haven't prepared anything else."
"Bless my heart! So I did," said Uncle Paul. "Here, Pickle, where are
those trout?"
Rodd gave his uncle a comical look, and stood rubbing one ear.
"Ah, uncle," he cried, "where are those trout?"
Uncle Paul screwed up one eye, and he too in unconscious imitation
began to rub one ear.
"Ah, well; ah, well," said the landlady, "I suppose you couldn't help it. I
have had gentlemen staying here to fish before now, and it's been a
basketful one day and a basket empty the next. Fish are what the Scotch
call very kittle cattle. Never mind, my dear," she continued to Rodd.
"Better luck next time. Fortunately I have got plenty of eggs, and
there's the ham waiting for