“Which you’re sure not to need, since you can have it,” Wally interpolated.
“I’ll have it, anyhow,” said Norah, laughing. “It would be almost worth toothache!”
“I thought you would be pleased,” her father said. “There is also a letter from the police department, Jim, stating that their inquiries about your friends of yesterday have been fruitless. They have hunted up the house, but, as you suspected, the birds had flown.”
“Oh, they’re up-country by this time!” Jim said.
“So the police think. They say they may be able to track them by means of the list of stolen property we gave them, but it’s hardly likely.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter much,” Jim answered. “I shouldn’t be here to identify anything, and unless I could get my hands on the man who hit me I don’t know that I’m thirsting to hear of his being caught.”
“Only gore would satisfy us!” murmured Wally.
“Just so; failing gore, there’s not much satisfaction in hearing that they’ve put the poor brute in prison—except to teach him to let unsuspecting white people alone in future. I suppose that ought to be done,” Jim said, reflectively.
“Decidedly it ought—but the police don’t see much chance,” said Mr. Linton, folding up the letter. “Has any one any wishes as to occupying the morning?”
“I don’t know if you’ll think us a little insane,” Jim said—“but Wally and I consider that our honour, or what’s left of it, is, to a certain extent, at stake. We want to find that native market!”