“Because I don’t want you,” said Stalker.
“Ah! thin, it’s little ye know th–the j–j–jewel ye’re th–throwin’ away.”
“What can you do?” asked the robber, while a slight smile played on his disfigured face.
“What c–can I not do? ye should ax. W–w–why, I can c–c–c–cook, an’ f–f–fight, an’ d–dance, an’ t–t–tell stories, an’ s–s–sing an’—”
“There, that’ll do. I accept you,” said Stalker, turning away, while his men burst into a laugh, and felt that Flinders would be a decided acquisition to the party.
“Are we to go without provisions or weapons?” asked Fred Westly, before leaving.
“You may have both,” answered Stalker, “by joining us. If you go your own way—you go as you are. Please yourselves.”
“You may almost as well kill us as turn us adrift here in the wilderness, without food or the means of procuring it,” remonstrated Fred. “Is it not so, Tom?”
Tom did not condescend to reply. He had evidently screwed his spirit up—or down—to the Turkish condition of apathy and contempt.
“You’re young, both of you, and strong,” answered the robber. “The woods are full of game, berries, roots, and fish. If you know anything of woodcraft you can’t starve.”