Jean Petit hissed the word “prison.”
“Suppose,” he continued, “I gif word to ze po-lice—”
When the escapee came to “police” he snarled viciously. “Vat zen?”
Neither youth ventured to speak.
“I tell to you—you go to chail!”
Petit put dreadful emphasis on the gaol.
“Oui—to chail. Zere you will be treat mos’ ill; you vill rot an’ starve an’ die! You will starve an’ rot an’ die.”
“But, non,” resumed Petit, after allowing the picture time to soak in, “I vill not gif you to chail. You air too young, too tendaire; I vill keep you viz ME! Sacre!” he ejaculated, shaking them both violently, “I shall be fazzair and mozzair vis you.”
This prospective parentage did not seem to fill either Tom or Dave with gratitude and joy. Two more wretched-looking children of adoption it would be difficult to see anywhere.