So he wandered through the “dim aisles of the woods,” and after a time he found they were not so lonely and deserted as they appeared. He paused to watch a tiny black-hooded chickadee that was doing all kinds of gymnastic tricks upon a bush, clinging to the side of a branch one moment, hanging upside down the next, and constantly on the move, now and then gleefully crying: “Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee.” He sat on a damp and rotting log and observed a red-headed woodpecker rat-tat-tatting away at the trunk of an old dead tree and saw a squirrel skurrying along the ground. And the hours slipped away with few disturbing thoughts of the football game that was taking place in Highland.
When he was tired of wandering in the woods, he sought the favorite spot by the Powder Mill Dam, where he lay on the ground or sat on the rocks and watched a speckled trout in a placid pool below the dam. So the afternoon passed, the sun dropped low, the shadows deepened and night drew on.
In the dusk, he returned along the road that led toward the village, the lights of which were beginning to gleam through the gloom across the harbor. He did not wish to appear in the village before the members of the eleven returned from Highland, and he knew they could not get back till some time after dark.
Reaching the Highland road, he paused a while, fully satisfied that neither players nor spectators from Rockspur had passed on the return journey. He sat on an old stone wall and waited till two village boys on bicycles, their lanterns making long white streaks of light on the road before them, came along from the direction of Highland. Although it was rather dark for him to make out who they were by the aid of his eyes, he recognized them by their voices, as they were talking about the game while they sped swiftly past toward the crest of Bloody Hill.
“Skinny Jones and Pug Andrews,” muttered Don, rising from the wall and making for the road. “They’ve come in ahead of the others, for Skinny is a scorcher. There’s time enough to get over the bridge before the buckboard comes along.”
But, as he was hurrying down the hill, there was a rattle of carriage wheels behind him. He looked back and saw a team come over the crest of the hill.
“That isn’t the buckboard,” he said.
But it proved to be a carriage driven by no less a person than Dolph Renwood, who was accompanied by his sister and Dora Deland. The light from a window of the railroad station at the foot of the hill shone out and fell full on Don, so those in the carriage recognized him.
“Oh, Mr. Scott!” cried a musical voice, “I’m so sorry we didn’t have you with us! If you had been there, I truly believe we might have won the game.”
Then the carriage clattered on, and Don turned in to the station to get his overcoat. He knew now that Rockspur had lost, but somehow Zadia’s words had seemed to rob him of the satisfaction he had expected to feel over such a result.