“He told me so himself. As to being low, he doesn’t look so low as the man who spoke to you in the cars.”
Percy Burnett’s face darkened, and he was about to speak violently, but a glance at Tom’s face, which, boyish as it was, indicated no ordinary strength and firmness, led him to change his purpose.
“Jack is rough, I admit,” he said, “but he’s worth half a dozen of this fellow.”
Tom did not agree to this, but he did not think it necessary to say so. He did not care to quarrel with Mr. Burnett, and thus lose the twelve dollars a week upon which he relied. He kept silent therefore.
For some reason or other Percy Burnett was unusually vexed and troubled at the thought of being accompanied by Brush, the hunter.
“It would spoil everything if that meddlesome fellow joins us,” he said to himself. “I could beat that stubborn boy for so obstinately encouraging him to keep company with us. I must give him the slip somehow.”
In the hotel yard was a stage with four horses attached. The driver was already on the box.
An idea came to Mr. Burnett.
“My friend,” he said, “when are you going to start?”
“In ten minutes, general.”