“Then, friend Brush, it appears to me that you are talking nonsense. I claim the right to help Tom if he joins us.”
“I’m afraid it’s no use talkin’, doctor,” said Peter Brush, in a dispirited tone. “Poor Tom may be scalped and murdered for all we know.”
“I don’t believe it, friend Brush,” said Lycurgus B. Spooner, energetically, “and I wish you wouldn’t call up such disagreeable ideas. It’s no joke being scalped, I tell you.”
“I know it isn’t, and I claim to be good authority on that point, for I’m one of the four men who were submitted to that little surgical operation and still live. I don’t care to think of any of my friends being operated upon in like manner.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, but, doctor, how long is this thing goin’ on?”
“Is what thing going on? Be a little more explicit, friend Brush.”
“I mean, how long are we goin’ to wait here for Tom?”
“Do you mean that you are tired of waiting for him?”
“No, I mean nothing of the kind. I mean that if you will stay here I will go back and try to find him.”