“Tryin’ to get away from us, I guess,” said one of the men.
“You keep your trap shut, Featherstone,” barked Joyce. “I’m not paying you to talk. This is my show, not yours.”
“Well, if you talk that way, you can run it by yourself. I’m not your slave. Keep a civil tongue in your head, Joyce—or I’ll go back to the car—and go right now.”
“That goes with me, too,” broke in the second man gruffly. “What d’you take us for—a pair of fools? I wasn’t hired to do a marathon the length and breadth of the forest on a soakin’ wet night. Those kids ain’t here—let’s go!”
“Oh, is that so? Well now you’ve had your say, and you’ll go—when I get good and ready,” sneered Joyce in his disagreeable, domineering voice.
“But what’s the use of hangin’ round?” argued the first man. “I’m tired and I’m hungry and I’m soaked to the skin—”
“And if I say the word to certain parties, the two of you will be taking a longer journey,” snapped their employer, “—a little trip up the river that ends in a chair—a red hot one. Shut up, both of you.”
He turned to Uncle Abe again. “Come, River—out with it,” he commanded. “Where have that boy and girl gone to?”
“How should I know?” Uncle Abe knocked his pipe out on the hearth. “What fo’ yo’all chasin’ dese hyar chillun in de woods?”
“That’s my business. There are fresh tracks leading along the trail right up to your door.”