to his mind. But his face was white enough
as he moved it from side to side on the pillow.

"I tell you I'm ill," he whimpered. "How can I go out with you, when you
see I can't eat a bite?"

Baumgartner gave it up for the night. He was coming back in the early,
early lovely summer's morning; then they would see, would they not?
Pocket had a last wave from the hideous meerschaum head, and a nod from
the other. He was alone for the night. And he meant to be alone next
morning when the doctor took his early walk; let him prowl by himself.
Pocket was not going with him. He had never been more determined about
anything than that. It was an animal instinct of fear and deep revulsion,
an impulse quite distinct from a further determination to slip away in his
turn as soon as the coast was clear. On this course he was equally
decided, but on other and more palpable grounds. Baumgartner had broken
his side of their treaty, so the treaty was torn up with the letter which
had never gone. And Pocket was going instead of his letter--going straight
to his people to tell them all, and have that poor innocent man set free
before the day was out.

The night's immunity was meanwhile doubly precious; but it had been
secured, or rather its continuance could only be assured, at a price which
he wondered even now if he could pay. He was a growing, hungry boy, no
longer ailing in wind or limb. Distress of mind was his one remaining
ill; the rest was sham; and distress of mind did not prevent him from
feeling ravenous after fasting ten or eleven hours. Here was food still
within his reach, even at his side; but he felt committed to his
declaration that he could not eat. If the tray were still untouched in
the morning, surely there could be no further question of his going out
with Baumgartner; but there was an "if." The boy was not used to being
very stern with himself; his strongest point was not self-denial. Much of
his moral stamina had been expended in nightly tussles for mere breath; he
had grit enough there. But his temperament was self-indulgent, and that
he triumphed over positive pangs only shows the power of that rival
instinct not to accompany the doctor a yard from his door.

Yet it meant more hours with the food beside him than he could endure
lying still. He got up, inch by inch, for he knew who lay underneath; and
he opened the window, which Baumgartner had broken his promise to open, by
even slower and more