In such a condition that he could scarcely walk, poor, deluded Hockley was assisted to the turnout and Markel climbed in beside him. It was now after midnight.
“Say!” cried Hockley, suddenly. “My watch is gone!”
“Your watch?” ejaculated the man from Baltimore, in well assumed surprise. “Are you certain?”
“Course I’m certain—it’s gone—best gold watch,” muttered Hockley, feeling into his various pockets with difficulty.
“Perhaps you dropped it in the carriage,” went on Markel, pretending to make a search. “It don’t seem to be here.”
“Some of those rascals at the cock fight robbed me,” groaned Hockley. He dove into his vest pockets. “Say! my money’s gone too!”
“You don’t say!” cried Markel. “That is bad and no mistake. You must have run afoul of a regular thief. Is there anybody you suspect?”
“Can’t say as there is. There was a nigger got pretty close to me just after the fight ended.”
“Then he must be the man. Shall we go back?”
“If he robbed me it ain’t likely he’s around now,” groaned Hockley. He gave a deep yawn. “Hang the luck anyway! Say, I feel awfully tired, I do.”