“Well, we’ll just leave you to-night, and if there’s any way we can help you in the morning, we’ll do it.”
They collected a few armfuls of bracken and put them against the wall of the hut for a bed, helping the lad to move there; Jean bathed his head again, and made a wet bandage for it of his other sock, and they put two full tins of water near him. Then they remembered that they were bringing home a surprise for Rex and Billy in the shape of two slabs of chocolate, and, with some regret, gave him these. He lay with closed eyes, but they felt that he was dimly conscious of all they did. Once he muttered something that sounded like “Thanks.”
They left him at last, and cantered rapidly homewards, conscious that they were very late. No one seemed to mind, however; the breathless heat was sufficient excuse for anything. Even Sarah sat on the kitchen verandah, fanning herself with the milk-skimmer. The twins handed over the mail-bag and ran off to change for tea—not sorry for a chance to discuss their amazing find.
“You know, I don’t see what we really can do,” Jo said. “He couldn’t be hidden down there for more than a few days, even if we could get food to him.”
“I suppose not.” Jean looked perplexed. “Anyhow, let’s do our best, Jo. He looks so young and miserable. Perhaps, if he escaped, he might never steal again.”
“Why, I’d help him to escape, quick enough—if I could see how,” Jo said, with calm disregard of the law. “But that’s the trouble. And we mustn’t land Father in a hole—if we can help it, that is.”
“No,” agreed her twin. “Not if we can help it.”
It was distressingly clear that if the choice came between inconveniencing their father or the patient, Mr. Weston might have to go to the wall.
“Perhaps we could keep him fed for a few days, and then let him take his chance of escaping,” Jo pondered. “But we just couldn’t hand him over to the police, Jeanie.”
“And what if the police come out here and question us?”
This was a horrible possibility which had not occurred to Jo. She thought a moment.
“We’ll make for the bathing-pool!” said she.
“They can’t question us if we’re swimming round in bathing-suits!”
Mr. Weston had carried the mail-bag out to the verandah, where his wife lay back in a long chair. For once, her busy fingers were idle, and she was very pale.