“Mr. Thompson, Mr. Thompson,” she said. “Do you think we’re the kind that can come up into the mountains and just sit and look off at the view? You know we aren’t. We mean to go to that poor man. That’s our adventure, don’t you see? Rescuing the helpless is the greatest fun there is. Why, the knights of old found that out. After you’ve tried all sorts of things, being rich and gay and all that, you come back to that old idea. So we’re setting out to rescue somebody, and we simply can’t be interfered with. But you may come along if you like. It will make it twice as interesting.”
“About this ‘nice boy,’” said Haystack, ever the watchful protector of Azalea. “Who is he? Where does he come from? Who are his folks? What kind of a job does he look to have—or is he a shiftless good-for-nothing like me?”
Carin, who felt the inquiries to be justified, flushed slightly and Azalea distinctly frowned. It was Azalea who spoke.
“We don’t know a thing about him, and that’s a fact,” she confessed. “We thought that perhaps some day he’d be telling us about himself, but he never says a word. I think there’s something he doesn’t want to tell.”
“Like as not,” said Haystack, dryly.
“Oh, not anything that he’s ashamed of,” put in Azalea quickly, “but something that it would make him sad to tell. You know, Mr. Thompson, dear, that it’s just that way with me. There are things in my life I don’t want to speak of, ever, but nothing that I’m ashamed of. If it’s that way with me, why shouldn’t it be the same with others?”
“Why not, indeed, honey-bird?” said Mr. Thompson contritely. “Well, we’ll see this ‘nice boy,’ and pass judgment on him. Though, honor bright, Zalie, I think your judgment ain’t the worst in the state. For a young-un you’ve had a good deal of experience in life and I reckon you have your own way of sizing up folks.”
As a result of all this, the next morning, early, in the best of moods and with a spirit for kindly adventure burning within them, a party of five started for Soco Mountain.
The “sun ball,” as the mountain folk call it, was just showing a burning rim above the purple horizon when they set out, with food in their saddle bags, matches in their pockets and canteens of pure spring water on their backs. Food for the horses and raincoats were buckled to the saddles.
“Short of breaking a nag’s leg,” said Haystack Thompson, complacently, “we’re safe.”