As they traveled over the road, Perkins entertained his young companion with scraps of personal adventure, borrowed from his ten years’ experience as a detective. He closed by instructing Andy how to act if they should encounter the men whom they sought.
Meanwhile, Hogan and the young man he called Bill, had stationed themselves near the road, in the shelter of some underbrush. Of the two, Hogan was the more excited and eager. His companion, under the impression that there was no money to be got from Andy, did not feel much interested in the matter. True, Andy had played a trick upon him, but, although provoked, he rather applauded the boy’s smartness.
With Mike Hogan it was different. He had suffered physical pain at Andy’s hands, besides losing, through his brave defense, the large sum which would otherwise unquestionably have fallen into his hands, and it was natural that he should thirst for revenge.
“I should like to wring the boy’s neck,” he muttered, as they lay together in concealment.
“It might not be altogether safe to kill him,” suggested Bill, who shrank from murder, and feared that Hogan’s temper might involve them in serious trouble.
“Oh, I won’t kill him!” growled Hogan. “I wouldn’t mind doing it, but for the law; but I don’t want my neck stretched.”
“That wouldn’t pay, Hogan, as you say.”
“I won’t kill him, but I’ll give him something to remember me by.”
“That’s all right; but don’t go too far.”
“I won’t do any worse by him that he did by me, I tell you. Are you sure there is no other road, Bill, by which he can come back? I should feel like a fool if he went another way, while we were lying in wait for him.”