The boy started, turned very red, then very white, opened his mouth to
speak, shut it tightly, and said nothing.

Saltash took out his cigarette-case and opened it with great
leisureliness. The smile still played about his ugly features as he chose
a cigarette. Finally he snapped the lid and looked down again at his
_protégé_.

"Or Toby nothing?" he said.

Toby's eyes came up to his, though the effort to raise them drew his face
painfully.

"Whatever you like, my lord," he said faintly. "I'll answer to anything."

Saltash's own face was curiously softened. He looked down at Toby for
some seconds in silence, idly tapping the cigarette he held against the
case. Then: "How old are you?" he asked suddenly.

"Sixteen, sir." Toby's eyes with their dumb pleading were still anxiously
raised to his.

Saltash bent abruptly and put his hand very lightly over them. "All
right. Don't hurt yourself!" he said kindly. "You're young enough to
chuck the past and start again."

Toby's claw-like hands came up and closed upon his wrist. "Wish I could,
sir," he whispered with lips that quivered. "Haven't had much of a
chance--so far, sir."