“Hello! Here comes the dirty Maggie.”
At this everybody came out. The story of the boat-thieves had been told, and had excited a good deal of interest. The young men had come from parts unknown, and had been regarded with disfavor in the town before they started on their river trip. They had hired a boat of a negro, no one else being willing to trust them with one.
“They’ve been a long time getting here,” said Phil.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Adam, “if they’d been a-hangin’ back till we got away.”
“That’s so,” said the colonel. “And now you fellows make yourselves scarce, and keep out of the way till they come up, and then we’ll hear what they have to say for themselves. If they see you, I shouldn’t wonder if they put off again.”
Our friends then retired into the dining-room, where, with doors shut and shutters partly closed, they watched the approach of the Maggie.
The dirty little boat sailed slowly toward the town, and when it reached The Rolling Stone, which was moored some little distance out in the river, it stopped, and the two young men seemed to be carefully examining her. Apparently satisfied that everything belonging to our friends had been taken out, and that they had probably gone on their way, they came up to the pier, and soon reached the hotel. The colonel was sitting on the piazza, not far from the dining-room window.
“Well,” said he, as the two fellows, now more untidy than ever, ascended the steps, “you’ve got back, have you?”
“Yes,” said one of them, “here we are.”
“Did you shoot much?” asked the colonel, gazing at them steadfastly.