Barney Bill lit his lamp, and, uttering juicy though innocuous flowers of anathema, searched for the scattered treasure.
When he had retrieved three shillings and sevenpence-halfpenny he peered out.

Paul was far away.

Barney Bill put the money on the shelf and looked at it in a puzzled way.

Was it an earnest of the boy's return, or was it a bribe to let him go?
The former hypothesis seemed untenable, for if he got nabbed his penniless condition would be such an aggravation of his offence as to call down upon him a more ferocious punishment than he need have risked.

And why in the name of sanity did he want to go home?
To kiss his sainted mother in her sleep?
To pack his blankety portmanteau?
Barney Bill's fancy took a satirical turn.