There was a chorus of negatives.
“Well, I’m sorry,” cried the Cornishman. “Poor chap! How savage he’ll be to find he has lost his toothpick. Look here,” he continued grimly, “if you all don’t mind, I’ll take care o’ this bit of steel. We may meet the chap as lost it, and I should like to give it him back.”
“Oh,” cried Dallas passionately, “how can you laugh and make a joke of such a misfortune as this?”
“What’s the good o’ crying about it, my son?” said the man, smiling. “There’s worse disasters at sea. Who says light a fire and have a good breakfast?”
“Breakfast!” cried Abel; “nonsense! We must go in pursuit at once.”
“And leave our traps for some one else to grab? Why, dear boy, we couldn’t get through the forest empty-handed.”
“No,” said Abel, gazing along the bank of the lake disconsolately.
“He’s right, Bel,” said Dallas, after shading his eyes and looking down the lake. “They’ve got right away.”
“Hang ’em, yes,” said the Cornishman, smiling merrily. “I say, I wish we hadn’t taken quite so much pains with that there raft. If we’d known we’d ha’ saved all those six-inch spikes we put in it.”
“The scoundrels, whoever they are!” cried Dallas. “It’s beyond bearing.”