But when he beheld the hole where the bags had been cached it brought him to full recollection.
“Yoompin’ yack rappits!” he gasped. “I am shodt—huh? Vale tond’t idt beat der Dutch? Yoost vhen I am t’inking I am so smartness dot nopody couldn’t pe eeny smardter I am shodt into sixdeen bieces.”
His head ached terrifically. When he put up his hand to it there came away a trickle of blood on his fingers.
“So-o I am shodt py der headt in!”
He stared at the hole in the ground marking the empty cache.
“Unt he haf daken off der goldt? Vale, vor bermitting dot I oughdt to pe shodt more as I am now.”
But the baron had not been robbed.
He looked about, but saw no one; then he examined his wound again. It was but a scratch on the top of the head; but it had knocked off his hat and dropped him senseless. The wound had bled freely and the baron discovered that his face was dyed crimson.
“Dot iss vodt haf made him t’ink I am deadt,” he thought; “vhen he seen dher bloodt vlowing like dot he iss shure I am a goneness undt he tond’t do noddings more; only he yoost dake der goldt unt gidt oudt. Yidt I t’ink me dot a doctor petter loogk at dot pullet sgratches pooty kvick.”
He knew that it was useless to think of following Jackson Dane; in his present condition the baron was not equal to it.