After a time there was the sound of voices talking and laughing, and the click of the heavy latch of the gate. Then through the open windows came the deep burr burr of Jem’s bass, and the shrill inquiring tones of Sally Wimble, as she eagerly questioned her lord.
Then there were steps, some of which passed the office door; and Don, as he sat with his head bent over a ledger, knew exactly whose steps those were, and where the makers of those steps were going to the different warehouses in the great yard.
Directly after Jem’s foot was heard, and he tapped at the door, pushed it a little way, and waited.
“Come in,” said Uncle Josiah, sharply.
Jem entered, doffing his cocked hat, and casting a sympathising look at Don, who raised his head. Then seeing that his employer was deeply immersed in the letter he was writing, Jem made a series of gesticulations with his hat, supplemented by some exceedingly queer grimaces, all meant as a kind of silent language, which was very expressive, but quite incomprehensible to Don.
“Well?” said Uncle Josiah, sharply.
“Beg pardon, sir! Thought you’d like to hear how we got on?”
“Well?”
“Went pretty quiet, sir, till we got about half-way there, and then he begun kicking like mad—leastways he didn’t kick, because his legs was tied, but he let go all he could, and it was hard work to hold the ladder.”
“And he is now safely locked up?”