But they found him not; and when bullied, they smiled, looked stupid, or shook their heads.
“It’s because they won’t find him, Master Nic. They know all the time,” said old Sam.
Acting upon this idea, Nic attacked the three blacks separately, telling them he was sure they knew where Leather was in hiding, and insisting upon being told; but the only result he obtained in each case was a stare of surprise and puzzlement. The man’s face puckered up, and at last he mumbled out:
“No pidney (understand). Mine no take Leather fellow in myall. Mine no been see it mandowie (tracks).”
“Be off!” said Nic; and the others talked in a similar way, and went “off;” looking the quintessence of stupidity.
“You’re all wrong, Sam,” said Nic, the next time he ran against the old man.
“What about, sir—them calves?”
“No, no—about the blacks. I questioned each of them, and they were all as stupid as could be.”
“No, I ain’t wrong, sir. You get ’em all three together, and promise ’em plenty of damper, some sugar, and a pot each of your ma’s jam; then you’ll see.”
“I’ll soon do that,” said Nic. “They’re in the wool-shed.”