rumbled. "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