“In books,” said the outlaw called Ginger, “they write a note to its people and say they want a ransom.”
“We won’t do that—not just yet,” said William hastily.
“Well, it’s not much sense holdin’ somethin’ up to ransom and not tellin’ the folks that they’ve got to pay nor nothin’, is it?” said Ginger with the final air of a man whose logic is unassailable.
“N——oo,” said William. “But——” with a gleam of hope—“who’s got a paper and pencil? I’m simply statin’ a fact. Who’s got a paper and pencil?”
No one spoke.
“Oh, yes!” went on William in triumph. “Go on! Write a note. Write a note without paper and pencil, and we’ll all watch. Huh!”
“Well,” said Ginger sulkily, “I don’t s’pose they had paper and pencils in outlaw days. They weren’t invented. They wrote on—on—on leaves or something,” he ended vaguely.
“Well, go on. Write on leaves,” said William still more triumphant. “We’re not stoppin’ you are we? I’m simply statin’ a fact. Write on leaves.”
They were interrupted by a yell of pain from Douglas. Flattered by the parental relations so promptly established by the baby, he had ventured to make its further acquaintance. With vague memories of his mother’s treatment of infants, he had inserted a finger in its mouth. The infant happened to possess four front teeth, two upper and two lower, and they closed like a vice upon Douglas’ finger. He was now examining the marks.
“Look! Right deep down! See it? Wotcher think of that! Nearly to the bone! Pretty savage baby you’ve brought along,” he said to William.