“Why is he hanging round after they’ve gone?”
“To git the money. Seems to me, Rufe, you’re blamed stupid this morning. Why, you’ve only to take one look at that young ruffian’s face to see the wickedness wrote there. He oughter be in prison this very minute, and he’ll soon be there—take my word for it!”
“Where is he?”
“Sneaked off while he had the chance—wal, I’ll be gul darned!”
The grinning Mike Murphy was standing at his elbow, where he had heard every word of the pointed conversation. The gossip was so taken aback that he began stammering:
“I had—that is, I was thinking of the other robber.”
“I was told,” said Mike, “that there was a man hereabouts that looked so much like me he must be my lost brither that was let out of jail in Boston a fortnight since. I’ve found him and begs the privilege of shaking his hand.”
And he caught the limp fingers of the gaping fellow and squeezed them hard, while he continued to gape and say nothing.
Since this unpleasant person bore not the slightest resemblance to the youth, being pale and effeminate looking, those who stood near broke into laughter. Mike turned about, and having bidden good-by to mother and daughter, passed into the street and turned down the road leading to the landing.
The hour was early and the fog of which I have spoken was beginning to creep over the village and through the woods. He kept his bearings, and when near the river plunged in among the trees to find the Deerfoot, remembering where she was moored the night before.