That evening was passed in the relation of adventures and a discussion about the fate of Wing.
“I’m afraid—very much afraid—that he was killed by the savages,” said Stan sadly at last.
“Savages—cowardly savages!” cried Blunt angrily. “But I don’t know; old Wing is a very slippery gentleman, and knows his way about pretty well. I’m not going to give him up for a bad job yet.”
“You think he has escaped?” said Stan excitedly.
“I hope so,” was the reply. “Things are not so bad as they might have been. You see that amongst the soldiery there is a feeling of respect for the English name.”
“Respect!” cried Stan indignantly. “You don’t fully grasp how they treated me.”
“Yes, I do, Lynn; for they didn’t kill you, and with people who hold life so cheaply that is saying a great deal. Well, my lad, it has been an adventure that you will never forget, and I’m very glad you have escaped so well. You don’t feel much the worse for it all?”
“Not in the least. But it’s delightful to get to civilisation again, and I’m looking forward to lying in a clean bed once more. I shall sleep to-night after what you have said about Wing.”
“I suppose so. But I say,” continued Blunt dryly; “wouldn’t you have liked to bring that monkey away with you?”
“I should,” cried Stan eagerly.