“’Twas him,” answered Corder; “an’ there’s no time to lose. If you can walk, take my arm an’ we’ll go back this minute. I’m going to drive to Princetown at once an’ give the alarm there. ’Tis only a matter of ten mile, an’ the civil guard at the prison know the Moor an’ will lend a hand to catch the man as soon as daylight comes. He can’t be off much sooner.”
“An’ this here silver treasure?” asked Mr Bartley.
“This here silver grandmother!” answered the other bitterly. “He’s done us—done me—me as have had some credit in my time, I believe. There—don’t talk—I could spit blood for this!—but words be vain. I sha’n’t have another peaceful moment till I’ve got that anointed rascal in irons again. ’Tis a lesson that may cost me a pension.”
Corder gave his arm to Gregory and Bartley walked in front with the lantern.
“A gashly company we make, sure enough,” said the pioneer. “The wickedness of that limb! An’ I thought for certain as my death had come. Talk about London—I’d like to see a worse unhung ruffian there, or anywhere. The man don’t live that’s worse than Sweetland. I never knowed there was such a liar in the universe.”
A last surprise awaited them and made the long journey to Princetown impossible until dawn.
When they reached the dog-cart they found it supported by the shafts alone, for the horse was gone.
“He’ll get to Plymouth after all, I reckon,” said Corder, blankly; “but we sha’n’t—not this side of morning. Us have got to walk ten mile on end to reach Princetown, let alone Plymouth. That’s what us have got to do.”
“While we talked, he took the hoss. The devil’s cunning of that man!” groaned Bartley.