“That it looks as if he meant to come back.”
“Yes,” said Jerry, mysteriously; “it do look like that. Are they trying to find him?”
“Of course, they are trying their best. They won’t stop till they have.”
“But ain’t it making a deal o’ fuss about one chap, and him not a reg’lar fighting man?”
“’Tisn’t that,” said the sergeant; “it’s the principle of the thing. They wouldn’t care about losing one man or a dozen; it’s keeping up the discipline. Young Smithson ’ll be caught, and he’ll be pretty severely punished, poor lad. I rather liked Smithson.”
“Liked him!” said Jerry, acidly; “why, of course, you did. Why, I like him—even me, who don’t make many friends—I can tell you. You think, then, they might ketch him?”
“I do,” said the sergeant, “sooner or later. They’re sure to. Well, I must be off. I’ve got my own troubles to think about without his.”
“Good-bye, sergeant,” said Jerry, with a friendly nod, and Brumpton went on, while Jerry’s whole expression changed. His eyes glittered, the colour came in his face, and he thrust his hands in his pockets as far down as he could get them.
“He wouldn’t have gone off without telling me, pore chap! I’m sure of it. It was master and man between us, and full confidence, as you may say. He wouldn’t desert—he’s too much the gentleman—and he wouldn’t go to see lawyers without speaking first. As to his going away, that settles it. He wouldn’t leave them flutes if he were making a bolt. Why, he didn’t when he ran away before. That settles it, and no mistake. Jerry Brigley, my lad, there’s something wrong.”
What was to be done?