At the edge of the clearing both men flung themselves out of their saddles, then ran. Eastman led. And as he entered the low door he still hoarsely called: “Laurie! Laurie! Laurie!”
A faint cry answered. It came from beyond the bed, on which lay a quiet form. The doctor reached to shove at the boards forming the blind door. They gave, disclosing a small inner room.
The next moment a little figure in soiled rompers came out of the darkness of the room, toddling unsteadily on bare legs, for the baby stockings were down over worn sandals. Fair hair hung uncombed about a face that was pitifully thin and streaked by tears and dust. The doctor lifted the boy up and swung him out, and the father spread his arms to receive him and caught the child to his breast.
The doctor laid back the rumpled covers of the bed then. “Bill,” he said kindly, and began to unbuckle the strap of his case.
“So that’s the other one.” It was Eastman, on his knees, the child clasped tight.
The doctor laid back the bedcovers very gently. “It was the other one,” he answered.
Midnight, and the lost boy was in his mother’s arms, with Eastman hovering beside the two, and the doctor across from him, sitting on his heels, with a baby hand in his big, gentle grasp.
“Doctor, we’ll never be able to make it up to you,” said the father. “I don’t feel that the reward is half enough. But I want you to accept it with our lifelong gratitude.” They were in Mrs. Eastman’s sitting-room at the hotel. Her husband crossed to a desk.
The doctor stood up, colouring bashfully. “Aw, I can’t take money for findin’ the little feller,” he protested; and when Eastman came back, holding out a slip of paper to him, he shook his head decidedly. “No, sir, I just can’t,” he declared. Letty entered then, carrying a tray hidden under a napkin. He hastened across the room to take it from her.