About five o’clock Fletcher opened his eyes. He was one who slept fast, so to speak, and obtained as much refreshment from an hour’s sleep as most people do from a period twice as long. He had been lying on the ground wrapped in a blanket, as was the case with the other members of the party.
Raising himself, and leaning on his elbow, he saw that they were all fast asleep. He nodded with satisfaction, and getting on his feet he approached Obed Stackpole with noiseless tread. The Yankee was sleeping with his mouth wide open, occasionally emitting a sonorous snore through his aquiline nose. He was not beautiful to look upon, as Fletcher evidently thought.
“Ill-favoured brute!” he ejaculated. “I’d like to choke him!”
If any special advantage had been likely to accrue to him, Fletcher’s conscience would not have been likely to stand in the way of violence; but his purpose now was different.
“The fellow must have gold about him,” muttered Fletcher. “I wonder whether I can get at it without waking him up.”
Obed seemed to be in a profound slumber, but it was a peculiarity of our Yankee friend to wake at the least touch. This, of course, was not known to Dick Fletcher, who felt that there would be no risk in a careful exploration of Obed’s pockets.
He thrust his hand into one of the Yankee’s pockets with the practised skill of a pickpocket, when an entirely unexpected result followed.
“Why, you skunk, what in creation are you about?” exclaimed Obed, suddenly seizing Fletcher by the throat.
“Let me go!” said Fletcher, struggling violently, but ineffectually, to free himself.
“Not till you’ve told me what you are after.”