“Mr. who?”

“Bonner.”

“Well,” said ’Rast after a moment’s consideration, “he ought to be moved to a hospital.  Lemme lean on you, Roscoe.  I can’t hardly walk, my arm hurts so.”

Mr. Little, with his bandages and his hobble, had joined in the expedition, and was not to be deterred until faintness overcame him and he dropped by the wayside.  He was taken in and given a warm chair before the fire.  One long look at Bonner and the newcomer lapsed into a stubborn pout.  He groaned occasionally and made much ado over his condition, but sourly resented any approach at sympathy.  Finally he fell asleep in the chair, his last speech being to the effect that he was going home early in the morning if he had to drag himself every foot of the way.  Plainly, ’Rast had forgotten Miss Banks in the sudden revival of affection for Rosalie Gray.  The course of true love did not run smoothly in Tinkletown.

The searchers straggled in empty handed.  Early morning found most of them asleep at their homes, tucked away by thankful wives, and with the promises of late breakfasts.  The next day business was slow in asserting its claim upon public attention.  Masculine Tinkletown dozed while femininity chattered to its heart’s content.  There was much to talk about and more to anticipate.  The officials in all counties contiguous had out their dragnets, and word was expected at any time that the fugitives had fallen into their hands.

But not that day, nor the next, nor any day, in fact, did news come of their capture, so Tinkletown was obliged to settle back into a state of tranquility.  Some little interest was aroused when the town board ordered the calaboose repaired, and there was a ripple of excitement attached to the funeral of the only kidnaper in captivity.  It was necessary to postpone the oyster supper at the Methodist Church, but there was some consolation in the knowledge that it would soon be summer-time and the benighted Africans would not need the money for winter clothes.  The reception at the minister’s house was a fizzle.  He was warned in time, however, and it was his own fault that he received no more than a jug of vinegar, two loaves of bread and a pound of honey as the result of his expectations.  It was the first time that a “pound” party had proven a losing enterprise.

Anderson Crow maintained a relentless search for the desperadoes.  He refused to accept Wicker Bonner’s theory that they were safe in the city of New York.  It was his own opinion that they were still in the neighbourhood, waiting for a chance to exhume the body of Davy’s mother and make off with it.

“Don’t try to tell me, Mr. Bonner, that even a raskil like him hasn’t any love fer his mother,” he contended.  “Davy may not be much of a model, but he had a feelin’ fer the woman who bore him, an’ don’t you fergit it.”

“Why, Daddy Crow, he was the most heartless brute in the world!” cried Rosalie.  “I’ve seen him knock her down more than once—­and kick her, too.”