“That’s curious. I can’t see what he has to do with us.”
“Nor I.”
“What do you suppose they will do with us?”
“Don’t let us think of unpleasant subjects, friend Brush. There’s one comfort—my scalp is pretty safe.”
“But mine isn’t,” said Brush, sadly running his hand through his bristling hair. It was not ornamental, but Peter Brush was attached to it, and the thought that he might lose it strengthened the value he set upon it.
“Tom, what are you thinking about, my lad?” asked Brush.
“I am thinking that we are in a tight place,” answered Tom, soberly.
“Keep a stiff upper lip, lad. We ain’t past hope.”
“God may help us,” said Tom, reverently.
Peter Brush scratched his head reflectively.