There could be no doubt in which
direction the van had moved, for the track of the wheels was plain.
It had gone farther up the lane toward the quarry. In the earth,
which was still soggy, were a number of footprints.
"By the bones of Polycarp!" exclaimed the Professor, "those hoboes
have stolen the van. I guess they think it'll make a fine Pullman
sleeper for them. If I'd realized there was more than one of them
I'd have hung around closer. They need a lesson."
Good Lord! I thought, here's Don Quixote about to wade into another
fight.
"Hadn't we better go back and get Mr. Pratt?" I asked.
This was obviously the wrong thing to say. It put the fiery little
man all the more on his mettle. His beard bristled. "Nothing of the
sort!" he said. "Those fellows are cowards and vagabonds anyway.
They can't be far off; you haven't been away more than an hour, have
you? If they've done anything to Bock, by the bones of Chaucer, I'll
harry them. I _thought_ I heard him bark."
He hurried up the lane, and I followed in a panicky frame of mind.
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