“Come on,” said Larry, leading the way out. “I’ll put back the padlock as best I can. Wonder what Herr Johann will think of our intrusion?”
“He’ll think we came to spy and didn’t get much out of it,” said Bob. “Let’s cut across here, through the birches.”
The faint squeak of wheels on the new-fallen snow sounded ahead of them. Larry glanced between the slender birch-trunks and, beyond the firs bordering the road, caught sight of a wagon moving slowly in the direction of Badheim.
“Someone’s coming along the road,” he said, putting out his hand to keep back the others. “I think it’s old Franz himself.”
Lucy, stealing up to his side, saw the horse and donkey drawing the wagon and gave a quick nod. “It’s Franz,” she said.
The woodcutter had come now almost abreast of where they stood. His wagon was heavily loaded with bundles of fagots roped together and partly sheltered by a tarpaulin cover. He drew rein and, jumping down into the snow, walked on as though inspecting the road, across which loose snow had drifted.
“No wonder he’s afraid of getting stuck,” said Bob. “His wagon’s overloaded.”
“Why in the world does he come out in such weather, and almost at nightfall?” murmured Larry, involuntarily moving nearer the road.
Franz had disappeared around the turn. Bob said suddenly:
“Larry, let’s have a look at one of his bundles of wood. Be quick and we can manage it.”