Ben flashed the
lantern on the handkerchief, and recognized it as the property of a
young woman of his acquaintance, whereupon he registered an inward vow
to throw off a Newcome and take on a Sullivan. Bridget was better
looking than Serlizer anyway, and wasn't so powerful headstrong like.
Mr. Bangs came to see the disconsolate corporal, and Mr. Terry sought in
vain to comfort him. The detective was not sorry, save for the
possibility of the fugitives effecting a junction with Rawdon, who would
thus be at the head of a gang again. Otherwise, Newcome was not at all
likely to leave the country, and could be had any time, if wanted. As
for the unhappy lad, he had suffered enough, and if there were any
chance of his amending his company, Mr. Bangs was not the man to put
stumbling blocks in his way. But the demented constable, having
recovered his baton, began searching. He explored the stables, the
lofts, the coach-house, the sheds, examined every manger, and thrust a
pitchfork into every truss of hay and heap of straw. He came outside and
scrutinized the angle of every fence, poked every bush, peered under
verandahs, and, according to the untruthful and unsympathetic Timotheus,
rammed twigs down woodchucks' holes for fear the jail breakers had taken
refuge in the bowels of the earth.
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