“I am sorry too,” said Uncle Jeff.
“And I too, uncle.”
“You are, I know, Stan. Well, it’s of no use to cry over spilt milk. The thing’s done and can’t be undone. But there’s the motive, and now the poor weak fellow has gratified his revengeful bit of spite let us hope he is satisfied and that all will go smoothly. Still, it is a painful thought that we have had a traitor in the camp.”
“I don’t care,” said Stan firmly.
“It is of no use to care, my lad; but if we have the enemy back I should certainly lock Master Wing where he could do no mischief.”
“You misunderstand me, uncle,” said Stan. “I didn’t finish what I meant to say.”
“Let’s have it, then, boy.”
“I meant to say, I don’t care; I don’t believe Wing would do such a thing.”
“Neither do I,” said Blunt warmly. “The poor fellow is too true. He was quite affectionate to me in attending to my wounds, and nothing could have been better than the plucky way in which he ran all risks through the fight, and afterwards undertook the commission to go and fetch the cartridges. No; I say Wing was not the guilty party.”
“Well,” said Uncle Jeff, “I want to be with you, for I like old Wing. There’s a something about him that puts me in mind of a faithful dog. We’ll agree that it was not he, and that drives us to suspect the coolies.”