“Warn’t you follerin him?” cried Solomon, in an excited voice.
“Sure an I wor,” said Pat; “but I lost sight of him iver an iver so long ago. An wheriver he is now, it ud take more’n me to tell.”
At this Solomon made a gesture of despair, and looked wildly all around.
“Mas’r Bart lost! Mas’r Bart lost!” he murmured, clutching his wrinkled hands together.
“Och, you needn’t bother about him. Sure an he’s follerin the praste an the Frinchmin, an he’s all safe an right. The last time I see him he was close on the hails of the praste.”
Solomon did not seem to have heard him. His eyes rolled wildly. He looked all around eagerly, wistfully, with unspeakable anxiety in his face.
“Mas’r Bart lost! Mas’r Bart lost!” he murmured, still wringing his hands.
“But I till ye he ain’t lost,” cried Pat. “He’s wid the praste, so he is. Didn’t I see him?”
“Don’t see no use,” cried Solomon, angrily, “for de likes ob you to go foolin round dis yer way, leadin folks eberywhar, out ob de right track. I bound to foller Mas’r Bart, an heah you go a foolin an a gittin lost. What’s de sense ob dis yer proceedin? What do you mean, anyhow? Ef you tink I’m goin to stan any such tomfoolery, you precious mistaken. You better begin now and go ahead, and find out whar Mas’r Bart is.”
Solomon’s tone was full of a certain angry menace, which was so utterly unlike his usual manner that Pat stared at him in wonder.