“I hope the poor boy has come to no harm.”
“That wasn’t likely unless he made an attempt to escape. The Indian boy—what was his name?”
“Miantonimo.”
“Yes. Well, he had such a fancy for Tom that he would be sure to have him treated well. It was very strange,” continued the doctor, meditatively, “almost like a romance.”
“It beats any romance I ever read,” said Peter Brush. “Doctor, I mistrust that Tom would try to escape sooner or later, and would most likely be caught and——”
Peter Brush gasped a little, and did not try to finish the sentence.
“He wouldn’t try to escape if he didn’t have a fair show, friend Brush. Tom is a smart boy; I didn’t know him long, but I found that out.”
“Yes, he’s a mighty smart boy. Now, supposin’ he did escape, what then?”
“What then? He would come here. When you told me his story, I made up my mind to that, directly. Tom set out on a mission, to clear up the mystery of his father’s disappearance. It was here that his father was robbed, and perhaps murdered. You may rely upon it, friend Brush, that he would come here just as fast as his legs could bring him.”
“I know you said that. That was why we came here.”