"Glad to hear it. I've been huntin' over the hull damn country for him," remarked Timothy.
"Do you want to speak to him?" asked Rayton.
Before the other could answer, Wigmore himself darted into the kitchen.
"What the devil do you want?" he cried, going close up to his servant, and shaking a thin but knotty fist in his face. "Go home, I tell you."
His frail body trembled, and his very beard seemed to bristle with wrath.
"But—but I thought you was lost," stammered the old servant.
"Get out!" screamed Wigmore. "Go home and mind your own business."
Timothy Fletcher stood his ground for a few seconds, staring keenly into the captain's face. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the kitchen. Old Wigmore glared around, swore a little, mumbled an excuse, and followed his servant.
"That old captain is a character," said Mr. Banks. "He's worth watching."
"He's a queer cuss, and no mistake," agreed Dick Goodine.