“I’ve no small notion that we’ll strike trouble over this job,” said Haverly ominously, “and that before a great while either. What the Barnum we’re to do with this long-shanked freak I know no more’n Caesar.”
“He may prove useful,” the baronet suggested.
“He may,” was the Yankee’s unpromising answer, “but I guess the odds lie the other way. Hi, Pharaoh!”—addressing the cringing savage—“get up from there right now. You’re black enough without wiping your face in the mud.”
As though conscious that he was addressed, the creature raised his head, and glared fiercely at Haverly.
“Get up,” the latter repeated roughly; then, seizing the wolf-man by his girdle, jerked him to his feet.
A baleful light flashed from the creature’s eyes, and, for an instant, it appeared as though he was about to spring at the millionaire’s throat, but he checked himself, and well it was for him that he did so.
“He’s got neither knife nor spear,” Seymour said, “so he cannot be very dangerous.”
“Umph!” Silas snorted, “I wouldn’t trust the brute out of sight. I guess we’ll have to keep a tight hand over him, or he’ll be settin’ a hull crowd of his pards on our trail in a brace of shakes.”
“Gehari!”
The harsh, guttural cry came from the wolf-man’s throat, and he beat his breast with his clenched hand.