"Certainly," replied Billy Brackett, cheerfully; "if you desire it.
I'm always ready to accommodate, especially when it's no trouble to do
so."
"Throw up your hands, then," commanded the Sheriff.
"To do that," argued the prisoner, without moving, "I shall be obliged
to let go my hold of this bull-dog. The moment I do so our friends
with the empty guns will be apt to fancy that about a yard of
particularly hot and well-greased lightning has been forged for their
especial benefit. Still, if you insist--"
"Oh, hang your dog!" exclaimed Mr. Riley. "You must hold on to him, of
course, until we can find a rope to tie him with. Where are your pals?"
"This is the only one I have at present," answered Billy Brackett,
indicating him by a glance; "but I am in search of another, and have
reason to believe that he is on this island at this very minute.
Haven't seen anything of him, have you? He is a young fellow, about
sixteen, named Caspar, son of Major Caspar, of Caspar's Mill, up the
river a bit. He left home yesterday on a raft, and I was to join him
hereabouts."
"What sort of a raft?" asked the Sheriff.
"Big timber raft. Two sweeps at each end, and three shanties on it,
two of them filled with wheat."
"No," replied Mr. Riley, in a relieved tone; for on hearing the
well-known name of Caspar his men had exchanged meaning looks and
smiles, which indicated their belief that the Sheriff might be getting
into hot-water.
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