“Better and better. I’ll bet we’ll have good old Jack back with us before night,” declared Sam hopefully. “At all events, we’ve got something to work on now.”
“That’s so,” agreed De Garros. “But if we’ve got to interview every owner of a white horse in Kingston, we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
“I don’t care how hard I work, so long as we can find some trace of Jack,” declared Sam positively.
An aged negro driving a dejected-looking white horse jogged by. The horse was plastered with dust till it was difficult to decide on what his real color might be.
Sam stopped De Garros by a tug at the arm.
“Stop that fellow,” he said; “there’s another white horse.”
But oddly enough it was the darky who pulled up without any admonition to stop. He checked his aged beast and addressed De Garros.
“’Pears ter me lak you am de party wot addressed dat young man wot was a-helpin’ an-nudder gen’mun inter mah equipage dis mawn-in’?” he said.
“That’s right!” cried De Garros. “You’re the man we’ve been looking high and low for. Where did you take him?”
“’Bout five miles out down de Castle Road, ’Busha,’” said the old man.