“And which are in my pocket.”
“In your pocket?” said George, drawing away from him.
“Ay, farmer! wrapped up in silver paper, and they shall never leave my pocket till I have fitted them on the man, and seen him hung or shot with them two pickers and stealers tied round his bloodthirsty, mercenairy, aass-aassinating neck, say that I said it.”
George. “Jacky, show us the way out of this wood.”
Kalingalunga bowed assent, but he expressed a wish to take with him some of the ashes of the wambiloa. George helped him.
Robinson drew Jem aside. “You shouldn't have mentioned that before George; you have disgusted him properly.”
“Oh, hang him! he needn't be so squeamish; why, I've had 'em salt—”
“There, there! drop it, Jem, do!”
“Captain! are you going to let them take us out of the wood before we have hunted it for that scoundrel?”
“Yes, I am. Look here, Jem, we are four, and he is one, but a double-barreled gun is an awkward enemy in a dark wood. No, Jem, we will outwit him to the last. We will clear the wood and get back to the camp. He doesn't know we have got a clew to him. He will come back without fear, and we will nail him with the fifty-pound note upon him. And then—Jack Ketch.”