"You little ass!" said Saltash in a voice that somehow reassured. "Sit
down there! Curl up if you like, and don't move till I come back!"

He indicated the sofa, and quite gently but with decision freed his arm
from the nervously gripping hands.

"You won't send me back?" the boy urged with quivering supplication.

"No, I won't do that," said Saltash as he went away.

He swore once or twice with considerable energy ere he returned, cursing
the absent Antonio in language that would have outmatched the Italian's
own. Then, having relieved his feelings, he abruptly laughed to himself
and pursued his errand with business-like briskness.

Returning, he found his _protégé_ in a small heap on the sofa, with his
head deep in the cushion as though he sought escape from the light. Again
the feeling of harbouring some small animal in pain came to him, and he
frowned. The mute misery of that huddled form held a more poignant appeal
than any words.

"Look here,--Toby!" he said. "I've brought you something to eat, and when
you've had it you'd better get a sleep. You can tell me all about it--if
you want to--in the morning."

The boy started upright at his coming. He looked at Saltash in his quick,
startled way. It was almost as if he expected a kick at any moment. Then
he looked at the tray he carried and suddenly his face crumpled; he hid
it in his hands.