After that for a full quarter hour they went dodging and weaving about among the brush and trees.
When at last they arrived at the dense clump of pines, it was on the side opposite John’s entrance.
“From here we crawl,” he said in a low voice.
Suiting actions to words he dropped on hands and knees to start crawling through the black caverns beneath the pines. Once again Jimmie followed.
“There,” John sighed, as at last he stood up to grasp the latch to the hideout, “we’re here.”
“But—but where do you suppose Mary is?” Jimmie stammered.
“Here I am,” came in a whisper as the door opened. “I didn’t dare to light a lamp. I—I’m frozen.”
“We’ll make a fire. Smoke won’t show in the night.” John lifted one cracked lid of the stove, took paper and wood from the box in the corner, placed it in the stove, scratched a match, and soon the crackle of a wood fire cheered the heart of the tired trio.
“Look!” the girl whispered as she spread John’s newspaper on the floor, then allowed a pencil of light to play upon it.
Like many white, winking eyes, the stones that men have fought and died for gleamed up at them.