“I say, do you think there’s any danger of his squealing, that is, if he hasn’t been killed?”
“Naw,” was the disgusted reply. “Nox is game—true blue; you can bet on him till the cows come home.”
Which was more than Nox could say about his two pals.
Kit Woodford may have spoken with confidence, but he was not as free from misgivings as he would have it appear. He could not feel sure of their missing companion. If the report which they had heard did not mean that he had been slain, his capture looked certain, and there was no saying what he might do to secure leniency. Kit knew what he would do in a similar situation.
“Well, come on,” he growled. “We’re in tough luck to-night.”
And the two pushed their way among the trees in the direction of the river.
Meantime, matters remained interesting at the home of Widow Friestone. The words of young Jim Buxton told a graphic story which made even Nora laugh and forget for the time the frightful excitement they had passed through. When the merriment had partly subsided, Mike drew one of his remaining two quarters from his pocket and handed it to Nora.
“Will ye do me the kindness to presint that to Jim when he comes to the store in the morning to set the table on the front porch?”
“What’s that for?” asked the puzzled girl.
“For the gayety he imparted to this gloomy avening. I don’t know as ye need say that to him, for he wouldn’t understand what ye meant until after three or four years of hard thought. But he’s airned it, and ye’ll not forgit.”