“We’ll find the child. Our work’s done here, Mr. Saul!” Taffy turned to the Chief Officer. “Spare us a man or two and some flares.”
“I’ll come myself,” said the Chief Officer. “Go you back, my dear, and we’ll fetch home your cheeld as right as ninepence. Hi, Rawlings, take a couple of men and scatter along the cliffs there to the right. Lame, you say? He can’t have gone far.”
Taffy, with the Chief Officer and a couple of volunteers, moved off to the left, and in less than a minute George caught them up, on horseback.
“I say,” he asked, walking his mare close alongside of Taffy, “you don’t think this serious, eh?”
“I don’t know. Joey wasn’t in the crowd, or I should have noticed him. He’s daring beyond his strength.” He pulled a whistle from his pocket, blew it twice, and listened. This had been his signal when firing a charge; he had often blown it to warn the child to creep away into shelter.
There was no answer.
“Mr. Vyell had best trot along the upper slope,” the Chief Officer suggested, “while we search down by the creek.”
“Wait a moment,” Taffy answered. “Let’s try the wreck first.”
“But the tide’s running. He’d never go there.”
“He’s a queer child. I know him better than you.”