“I’ll bet you a horn of brandy,” said the first, “that the chap has either a pocketbook or a snug little hoard of small change stowed away amongst his shirts. And if not there, we will find it in his pantaloons pocket.”
“But how if he wakes?” said the other.
His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the handle of a dirk and nodded.
“So be it!” muttered the second villain.
They approached the unconscious David, and, while one pointed the dagger toward his heart, the other began to search the bundle beneath his head. Their two faces, grim, wrinkled and ghastly with guilt and fear, bent over their victim, looking horrible enough to be mistaken for fiends should he suddenly awake. Nay, had the villains glanced aside into the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves as reflected there. But David Swan had never worn a more tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother’s breast.
“I must take away the bundle,” whispered one.
“If he stirs, I’ll strike,” muttered the other.
But at this moment a dog scenting along the ground came in beneath the maple trees and gazed alternately at each of these wicked men and then at the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain.
“Pshaw!” said one villain. “We can do nothing now. The dog’s master must be close behind.”
“Let’s take a drink and be off,” said the other.