Ratcliff.”
“I agree with Mr. Robson,” said Semmes, “that we may as well adjourn. The telegraph wires are cut, and I should not wonder if all the summoned parties were among the fugitives. Ratcliff pursues.”
The select assemblage broke up, and above the curses, freely uttered, rang the sardonic laugh of Robson. “Two to one that Ratcliff doesn’t catch them!” said he; but no one took up the bet, though it should be remembered, in defence of Wigman and Sanderson, that they were too busy in the liquor-closet to heed the offer.
“Ah! my pious friends,—still at it, I see!” exclaimed Robson, coming in upon them. “You remind me of a French hymn I learnt in my youth:
‘Tous les méchants sont buveurs d’eau;
C’est bien prouvé par le déluge!’
Which, for Sanderson’s benefit, I will translate:
‘Who are the wicked? Why, water-drinkers!
The deluge proves it to all right thinkers.’”
Leaving the trio over their cups, let us follow the enraged Ratcliff in his adventures subsequent to his letter to Semmes.