“Golly, it’s cold!” Dorothy splashed into the water behind him.
“Brrr—I know it. Lift your feet high or you’ll fall over these boulders. And please try to make as little noise as possible.”
From the direction of the woodlot came a prodigious crashing and threshing. The pursuit had gained the woods.
“Noise!” she said scornfully, floundering along in his wake. “Those thugs can’t hear me—they’re making too much racket themselves. I suppose, Bill, you’re working on a plan, but what it can be is a mystery to me.”
“You mean—where we’re bound for?”
“Yes. We can’t get back to the big pasture and the hill up to Stoker’s house. They’ll head off any play of that kind.”
“I know that. Stand still a minute, I want to listen.”
“But Bill—”
“Sh—yes, that must be it!”
“Must be what?” There was impatience in Dorothy’s tone.