“Anyone know what became of that interesting stranger?” went on Raynier, after the necessary pause.
“The Indian Johnny? Not much. We all got mixed up in the mob, and what with all the ‘bokos’ that were hit, and the claret flying, and then the bobbies rushing the lot, none of us knew what had happened to anyone else until we all found ourselves snug and jolly at the Peculiar.” And then followed an animated account of wounds and casualties received and doughty deeds effected.
“We thought you were taking care of the Indian Johnny, Raynier,” concluded Grice, “and that was why you didn’t turn up.”
“I wish I knew where to lay finger on the said Indian Johnny,” was the rejoinder.
“Why? Was he some big bug?”
“I don’t know. But he’s got my stick—or had it.”
“Rather. And didn’t he just lay about with it too. Looked as if he was quite accustomed to that sort of thing.”
“The worst of it is I rather value it,” went on Raynier. “In fact I’d give a trifle to recover it. Given me, you understand.”
“Oh—ah—yes, I understand,” said the other, with a would-be knowing wink.
“Why not try the police stations?” suggested the self-styled creator of the above vile pun. “The darkey may have been run in with a lot more for creating a disturbance.”