“A building,” groaned MacDaly, patting his dripping sides. “Alack, alack, I’m very wet.”
“You ever hunt fox?”
“No.”
“Great sport; you be fox, me hunter. This be dog,” pointing to the bewildered Mascarene, who had been in the water swimming around MacDaly waiting for a chance to rescue him, and who was now sitting staring at him. “Run,” added Joe.
“But there would be no confidence existing,” said MacDaly protestingly.
“Run,” said Joe, who had not the slightest idea of his meaning, and MacDaly with a sigh skipped nimbly over the wall. Away up at the top of the hill he looked back and fancied that he was to be allowed to escape, for Joe stood motionless with the dog beside him. MacDaly could not resist making a derisive motion of his hand, but repented immediately and bitterly, and with a plaintive squeal of dismay fled in the direction of the town, for hunter and dog bounding like two stealthy panthers were after him.
A few minutes later Joe was shaking his small remaining amount of breath from him. “What you burnum?”
Still MacDaly would not tell him, again Joe let him off, but only to resume his chase, till at last the unfortunate fox, bedraggled, exhausted, and overcome, told him the secret of his life.
Joe with a noiseless step returned to the cottage, and lay in wait under a larch for Mr. Armour, who always came down to see his brother some time during the evening.
“Mr. Val sleepum,” he said an hour later when Mr. Armour was about to pass him, “and cunnel away. This for Miss Debbiline, from Daly,” and he held out the three-cornered note. “Daly say,” he went on, “that he burnum warehouse. Miss Debbiline’s father not do it. Daly happen go early to warehouse. He go in office, find cigar, he smokeum. He no business there, hearum noise, run out. He ‘fraid some one catchum. He drop cigar—must sparks fall, he not know. Not do on purpose. He ‘fraid tellum.”