“Sure, ave yees’l wait till I think ave all the places I whint to, and all the people I sphoke to”—and he dolefully muttered under his breath—“Sure I dunno what I’ll rayport at all, at all—”
“You are very thoughtful and persistent, Smith,” responded Constance.
“Yis, indade, mam, I try to be that very same. Sure, wasn’t I up at Rose-a-mant and walked the bache there and watched the boats, but niver a sight did I git ave Mr. Thorpe.”
“I know John is leaving no stone unturned to find Dorothy,” assured Constance, “but you, poor man, you must be tired with your long walk.”
“The walk was long, but me heart was warrum for yees, and I didn’t moind it at all, at all. Sure, the child may not be in the water at all. Will yees try to think so, dear?” And again the beseeching look came over his expressive face.
“Do you think so, Smith?” interrogated Hazel.
“Well, I ’ave me own ideas, Miss, and to be plain, and not hurtin’ yees failin’s, I think she was kidnapped.”
“You do?” questioned Hazel, surprised, for such a possibility had never crossed her mind.
“I do,” he replied.
“Sure, I have no rason to think so, Miss, at all, at all; but says I to myself, says I, ‘I’ll just flim-flam around the ‘dago’ quarters in South Portland, on me own account, keeping a sharp lookout betimes.’”