“Yes. Shag, pack up! We're going back to civilization.”
The colored man's face was a study. He looked at the quiet stream, at the drooping willows, at the fish rod in his master's hand, and at the creel. He opened his mouth and spoke:
“But, Colonel, yo' done tole me t'—”
“No matter what I told you, Shag, these are new orders. Pack up!” came the crisp command. “We're going back to town. I'll do what I can in this case,” he went on to Bartlett. “I came here for some quiet fishing, and to get my mind off detective work. I was dragged into a diamond cross mystery not long since, sorely against my will, and now—”
“I am sorry—” began Bartlett.
“Oh, well, it can't be helped,” the colonel said. “I'd give up more than a fishing trip for a daughter of Horace Carwell. You may let her know that I'll come, if it will give her any comfort. Though, mind you,” the colonel's manner was impressive, “I promise nothing.”
“That is understood,” said Bartlett eagerly. “I'll wire her that you are coming. There's a train that leaves right after supper. We can get that—”
“I'll take it!” decided the colonel. Now that he had given up his cherished fishing he was all business again. “Shag!”
“Yes, sah, Colonel!”
“Pack up for the evening train. Give that fish to the cook and have it served for Mr. Bartlett and myself. You'll dine with me,” he went on. It was an order, not an invitation, but Bartlett understood, and accepted with a bow.