“My theory is,” broke in Billy, “that you’re all crossing your bridges
too soon. We don’t know until we find out. Come on!”
Lola ran ahead to tell her grandmother and promised to join them along
the trail.
There was little talk between them. Even the optimistic Billy was silent
and when Lola caught up with them her face was so grave that it tended
to make them more alarmed than ever.
“It seems longer than when we came here the other day,” Mr. Wilde said
to relieve the tension.
“Yes,” said Lola, “and I didn’t think then I’d be the cause----”
“Now, my dear child!” Mr. Wilde was touched by her self-indictment. “No
one is to blame but Rip and at that I couldn’t call him down for having
been born with a stubborn disposition, could I?”
“Of course not,” Lola agreed.
“But Westy,” Mr. Wilde continued, “that boy is a jewel. He has more
sense than Rip’ll ever have. Likes adventure, but uses discretion.”
“What’s the use of talking about it?” Billy interposed. “We are as we
are!”
“No doubt. I hate to think of the two mothers and fathers who are going
to accuse me of wanton laxity in my care of their sons if we don’t find
them. I shouldn’t have taken the responsibility at all. It’s my fault!”
“Say, for the love of goodness,” Billy pleaded, “you’re like the fellow
who ordered his mother-in-law’s flowers two weeks before she died!”
“Well, he had a reason,” Mr. Wilde said, his humorous squint coming to
the fore.
“Well, so have you,” Billy answered, “a reason to cheer up. I’ve more
faith in Westy’s gameness than Rip’s bragging. If we don’t see any signs
of them up there we still shouldn’t feel discouraged.”
“Why?” questioned Lola.
“But,” Mr. Wilde said, “Lola says herself that if they were lucky enough
to get out of the lake and land on the cliff they’d have less chance
than ever trying to get out of the forest. No one ever has yet, so what
chance have two kids? Why, she says there’s absolutely no way of getting
any nourishment or water and the place is filled with snakes. Nothing
but a dense jungle of trees and stagnant pools. Plenty of malaria I bet.
Three days they’ve been gone--think of it!”
“Now come on,” Billy said. “I feel as anxious as you, but I’m not going
to give up so easy. Here we are now!”
Turning away from the broad terrace, they could see at first glance what
they knew they would see--nothing. Not a sign nor sound of human life
but their own, and as they stood looking out over the placid-looking
water three minds were all of one thought.
It was so terribly silent that the humming sounded louder than ever. It
would almost seem that the heinous spirit of the lake was mocking these
humans in their fears and anxiety and challenging their puny bodies to
combat this terrific force that Nature gave it as its birthright.
Lola wasn’t the crying kind of a girl. She felt so keenly that it
wouldn’t have happened but for her recital of the legend that she was
angry with herself and from anger she felt fear and pity for the boys.
Then she cried and turned toward the trees that Mr. Wilde and Billy
might not see her emotion.
As her eyes were gradually clearing again she saw through the blur--two
pair of scout shoes on the ground, right at her feet.
“Look!” she exclaimed, and as the two men turned she picked them up.
It was the last straw as far as Mr. Wilde was concerned; he couldn’t
even bear to look and turned away, walking toward the terrace. Billy and
Lola followed him heavy-hearted and almost without hope.
“We’ll go right away,” Billy said, “and get around into the forest.”
“I’m going with you then,” Lola said determinedly, “but I’ll run home
first and get food and water. They’ll need it and so will we! Wait for
me there!”
She was gone and had disappeared on the narrow path winding above the
ravine. After just about time enough to have reached the trail, they
heard her scream.
“Mr. Wilde! Billy! Quick--oh, quick!”
They came running out of the narrow path and reached her side almost
breathless. She was waving her hands with great excitement and her face
was a picture of convulsive terror and pity.
Along the upper part of the trail they saw!
It was Westy, his clothes now just a few rags covering his raw swollen
flesh and his face puffed and deathly white. With great effort he was
carrying Rip, whose inert body hung over his shoulder.
As he stumbled toward them, his feet pitifully cut and bleeding, they
could hear him babbling unintelligible words to the unconscious boy.
Hurrying to relieve him of his burden, he pushed them aside--holding
fast to Rip as a mother would her child in great danger. His brain, sick
as it was, could not crush the spirit that was Westy Martin nor deter
him from keeping trust.
His ague-stricken form straightened up as if to defy them to bar his
way. A look of inanity filled his usual bright expressive eyes and when
he spoke his voice had been reduced to almost a whisper from his
weakened state.
“Must--get--him--back! Not ’nother night without water!”