"Come up here."
The pitiful procession reached the sitting-room. "Sit down there,"
George commanded. "If you make a sound I shall probably cut your head
clean off. What do you mean by hiding in my room?"
Between gusty pain and terror: "I thought it was a hairship."
"Oh!" George paced the room. What did the vile boy think now? "Oh,
well, what do you think it is now?"
"I believe it's the cat wot's in the piper."
"Oh, you do, do you?" Yes, this was a very horrible position indeed.
"Oh, you do, do you? Now, you listen to me, my lad: unless you want
your head cut right off you sit still without a sound."
The red-headed Pinner boy sat quite still; wept softly. Life, at the
moment, was a bitter affair for this boy.
II.
George paced. The hideous nightmares of the morning had returned now--
snorting, neighing, trampling iron-shod; stampeding in hideous
irresistible rushes. This was the beginning of the end. He was
discovered--his' secret out.
Flight--immediate flight--that was the essential course. Par-par,
thanks to sweet heaven, was at a chapel meeting. The thing could be
done. A timetable upon the mantelpiece told him that a down-train left
the station at 8.35. It was now eight. Better a down-train than an up.
The further from London the less chance of this infernal _Daily_ with
its Country House Outrage.
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