“No—through the paddocks, and across the Common.”
“You’d ’a’ been more likely to see him there—he won’t be troublin’ the highroads much,” said the constable. “Oh, well, good afternoon, Miss Weston.” He smiled between them and strode off, his chest well out, and his step martial; and the twins, themselves feeling a little important, went in search of their ponies, and rode out of the township.
At first they were on the alert to scan every unfamiliar face—not that unfamiliar faces were plentiful in Barrabri, where the twins knew everybody. They were like a person who, having encountered a snake, sees one in every bush. Twice they turned down cross-roads in pursuit of a suspicious figure: the first turning out to be a grizzled rabbiter, and the second, Tom Holmes, who, covered with dust, was returning from a long afternoon spent fruitlessly as a sleuth-hound. Tom’s return to school had been delayed, owing to an untimely attack of chicken-pox; an undignified disease, which had caused him bitter shame. His period of quarantine had almost expired, and he was off on Monday, he explained; it would have been some set-off to a fool complaint like chicken-pox if he could have captured a criminal off his own bat!
“But I had my usual luck,” he said wrathfully. “Never saw a sign of him all the afternoon, and finished up by letting my horse get a box-thorn in his fetlock! He’s dead lame, and I’ve had to leave him at the stables. Tried to get a horse in the township, and couldn’t, so I’ve got to walk home!”
“Teach you to let poor prisoners alone!” said Jean unsympathetically. “Why do you want to hunt the poor fellow down?”
“Well, he’s got plenty of people after him.”
“He ought to have kept his hands off other people’s money.”
“Oh, well, that’s not our business,” Jean said.
“But, good gracious!” ejaculated Tom, “you said you came down this road because you thought I was him! What did you mean to do if I had been?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jean said, laughing. “Look at him, I suppose. Criminals don’t come our way every day, you know!”
“We certainly wouldn’t have laid violent hands on him, remarking, ‘Come and be killed!’ anyhow!” said Jo.
“Well, I should say you wouldn’t—kids like you! But you’d have gone in for Ransome, I suppose?”