“Is he all right?”
“As fit as a fiddle—all he wants is sleep.”
“Oh, Peter!” It was foolish. But it was all I could say for a full minute. For my boy was alive, and safe. My laddie had been found by Peter—by good old Peter, who never, in the time of need, was known to fail me.
“Where are you now?” I asked, when reason was once more on her throne.
“At Buckhorn,” answered Peter. 360
“And you went all that way through the mud and rain, just to tell me?” I said.
“I had to, or I’d blow up!” acknowledged Peter. “And now I’d like to know what you want me to do.”
“I want you to come and get me, Peter,” I said slowly and distinctly over the wire.
There was a silence of several seconds.
“Do you understand what that means?” he finally demanded. His voice, I noticed, had become suddenly solemn.