“Because I’m a fugitive—in mortal peril of my life!” answered the boy, his whole face beaming with fun. “You can’t think what a funk I was in when I heard you coming.” Bertie was rather puzzled. “I shan’t hurt you,” he said. “Nor betray me?” “No, of course not. I don’t know what you mean.” Phil laughed merrily. “Well, then, I’ll come out, and chance the rest. It’s jolly uncomfortable in there;” and the boy pushed his way out amid fresh showers of dew, and stood before Bertie all wet and dripping, his curly hair bright with sparkling drops, his merry eyes brimful of fun. The little boy stared at him in great surprise. “Who are you?” he asked. “I’ve told you once—a fugitive, a despairing and desperate character—so beware! And pray who are you, if I may make so bold?” The child hesitated a moment. “I’m Bertie,” he said, slowly. “Bertie what?” He shook his head. “That’s all—only Bertie. I live with the Squire now.” “You do, do you? You’re a little chap anyhow. I wonder who you are?” “I don’t know myself,” answered Bertie, with great gravity; “and nobody else knows either. But I know who you are; you must be Queenie’s brother, you are so like her.” Phil’s face put on a look of horror. “Gracious goodness! I am betrayed! What will become of me now?” Bertie was extremely puzzled; but he had a composed manner that concealed his bewilderment very well. “What do you mean, and what are you doing here? I wish you’d tell me.” Phil loved to talk better than almost anything else in the world, and he gladly plunged headlong into his tale. Bertie did not understand it all; but he understood enough to be immensely interested and to give Phil all the encouragement necessary to make him exceedingly diffuse and circumstantial. Only towards the close did Bertie’s face grow grave. “But why don’t you go and tell them you’ve run away? Why does only Queenie know?” “Oh, they know I’ve run away, only they don’t know where I am.” “Why don’t you tell them?” Phil explained his reason; but Bertie shook his head gravely. “It looks as if you were afraid,” he said. “Afraid of what?” “Of being scolded or punished. Are you afraid?” Phil’s face flushed. “Afraid indeed! If you’d seen all the lickings I’ve had at school, you wouldn’t think I was.” “Well, it _looks_ as if you were then,” persisted Bertie, who knew his own mind when it was once made up. Phil looked a little vexed; though it was not in his nature to be easily put out. “That’s all rubbish! I only hide for the fun of it. You don’t suppose I’d funk anything really?” “I didn’t think so till just now. I was thinking how brave you were.” Phil was mollified by the compliment. “Well, young un, you’re a pretty cool hand, I must say. Pray, what do you think I’d better do, under the circumstances?”