"'Tain't on him nowhere," gruffly remarked the one who had been making the search.
"Feel in his breeches pocket," suggested the other.
The man transferred his hand from the coat to the trousers without success. "'Tain't there neither," he growled. "I don't believe he fetched it tonight."
"There's his shoes," observed the first man, who was evidently the more persevering of the two. "See if it ain't in them."
The other tore open the gaiters and dragged them off. The cold air struck Mr. Vanderpool's stocking feet very unpleasantly, and filled him with dismal visions of rheumatism and gout; but he bore it bravely, and by a tremendous effort stopped a threatening sneeze.
"I tell yer he ain't got it," declared the first man. "We're left; that's what it is. What'll we do with the old chap?"
His partner scowled. "Chuck him into the pond."
He chucked into a pond at his time of life, and with his rheumatism! It would be the death of him. The prospect of a ducking loosened his tongue.
"Help! murder! thieves!"