“There’s his blankets!” said Tom. “Perhaps he has gone to the woods to meditate,” he added, with a laugh. “I shan’t be sorry, for one, if he doesn’t come back.”
“Nor I,” assented Grant.
“It’s my belief that he’s a rascal!”
“Whether he is or not, I don’t like him.”
“You forget, Grant, that you are the image of his lost boy,” said Tom, with a laugh.
“I hope not. I shouldn’t like to look like any one belonging to him. Do you believe his story about the Indians attacking his party?”
“It may be true, though I think the man is capable of lying. Well, I must wake up father.”
The blacksmith was soon roused.
“A fine day!” he said cheerily. “We are in luck. Where is the horse?” he asked abruptly, the next instant.
Startled by the question, Tom and Grant turned their eyes in the direction of the tree to which old Dobbin had been tethered.