Then did the cheeks of the females blanch with terror. Florence Brandon spirited away in the night by an Apache Indian! The very thought was enough to fill one with shuddering terror.
“Yes, she is gone,” exclaimed Miss Sillingsby, wringing her hands and threatening to go into hysterics again. “She is gone, and what is to become of me and her poor father?”
“Yes, by jingo!” wailed Leonidas Swipes, darting hither and thither and fairly dancing in excitement to the tune of the lamentations around him. “What’s to become of the Fort Mifflin Institute for the Education of the Youths of Both Sexes? Gone up, and my hopes and fortunes dashed to the ground; jest as they always get dashed when they are about to bud and blossom; I swan if they don’t.”
“See here, my man,” called out Fred Wainwright, “you acted as sentinel last night—didn’t you!”
“I believe—come to think, I am almost sure I did.”
“And you took this wagon of Miss Brandon’s under your special charge, as you were satisfied that was the only way of making her safe; you did this, didn’t you?”
“I believe—come to think I s’pect I did do something like that.”
“Then what kind of a sentinel are you?” demanded the young hunter, contemptuously, “to allow an Indian to come in here at night and steal her away.”
“By jingo, I don’t understand it; I swan if I do; I must have been—ah—have been—”
“Asleep of course.”