All attempt at rescue would have been unavailing, and, to tell the truth, Oscar did not think of making any.
The night was pitch dark, and the actions of the dogs, which followed close upon the heels of the robber and barked at him, but dared not lay hold of him, made the boy believe that the animal was one that had better be left alone.
What species he belonged to Oscar, of course, could not tell, but everything proved that he had been very sly about his work.
He had taken his prey from under the very noses of the sleeping dogs, and neither they nor the horses or oxen knew that there was anything wrong until they were alarmed by the bleating of the goat.
"He must have been a powerful as well as a cunning beast," thought Oscar as he examined the broken rope, which was almost as large as a clothes line. "That goat must have weighed sixty or seventy pounds. When Mr. Lawrence gave me those hounds he assured me that they would attack anything from a porcupine to a leopard; but they didn't dare take hold of this fellow. Where was he, I wonder, while I was walking about the camp? Whew! I don't want anything to do with such a varmint in the dark."
The dogs came in one after another; and when quiet had been restored Oscar went to bed again.
It was a long time before Big Thompson forgave the Irishman for knocking him down. He looked savagely at Paddy whenever the latter came near him, and muttered something between his clenched teeth, and it took a good share of Paddy's tobacco to restore the Kaffir to his usual good nature.
After this nothing worthy of interest happened until the wagon reached Leichtberg, where Paddy O'Brian was to leave Oscar's employ.
Oscar had letters of introduction to Mr. Evans, an English gentleman living in Leichtberg, and, as usual, he was cordially received.