“Just what I told you already, Mack,––good honest flour and feed in one hundred pound sacks, which will help to swell the credit side of your next balance sheet.”
“The Lord be thankit!” he groaned. “But I wish one of them had been loaded up with King George’s Special.”
Jim shot out his tongue.
“Me too!” he answered pawkily.
They had not got very far on their journey, when a lone horseman came dashing toward them over the hill from the direction of Vernock.
It was Chief Palmer. His horse was in a lather and the Chief looked as if he had ridden hard and had been out all night to boot. He wore a crestfallen expression when he drew up alongside.
“Hullo!” he cried, with an assumption of gaiety. “Holding up the quiet farmer on the public highway? Captured the gang, eh?”
Immensely proud of himself and his achievement, Howden jumped down, intending to give his chief a full account of the capture, but Palmer seemed in no mood to listen, and told him he had better keep his story for later on, and look after his prisoners.
“You don’t seem particularly gay over it, Chief!” commented Jim.
“Why should I?” he replied. “I’ve ridden for two hours, hoping to be in time for the scrap, and you fellows beat me to it.”