He pleaded eloquently to be taken with us.
In the afternoon, when I was doing a little scale work preparatory to cooking, a messenger from the hotel drove up with a note from Silvia which I read aloud:
“Ptolemy has been missing for twenty-four hours. We are in hopes he has joined you. If not, what shall I do?”
“We’ll go back with you,” said Rob to the man. “Just lend a hand here and help us pull up these tent stakes.”
“What’s Ptolemy to me or I to him?” I asked with a groan, “can’t we give him absent treatment?”
“You’re positively inhuman, Lucien,” protested Rob. “The boy may be at the bottom of the lake.”
“Not he! He was born to be hung.”
All this time, however, I had been active in making preparations for departure, as I knew that Silvia would feel that we were responsible for Ptolemy’s safety, and her anxiety was reason enough for me to hasten to her.