“Zalie! Zalie McBirney!” he shouted. “Where you hiding? This is ole Haystack come to take you home. Don’t be afeard, Zalie. Answer up, that’s a good girl.”
But no answer came; and a couple of hours later when he had reached the contented little town of Barrington, he went to the telegraph office and with the help of the obliging young operator sent this message to Mr. Carson.
“Found the third wagon, but not the girl. Search party going out to-day.”
CHAPTER XI
THE SUMMERS FAMILY
The Rev. Mr. Absalom Summers, pastor of the Methodist church at Barrington, N. C., got up out of his bed singing. He went to his bath singing, and singing he hastened to the kitchen to build the fire for breakfast.
“A mighty fortress is our Lord,” he shouted to the clear, bright morning.
“A bulwark nev-ev-er fail-ll-ing.”
He did not even stop singing when he knocked his head against the shed door. Indeed, he would have felt a little lonesome if he had not hit it against that jamb, for that battering of his blond head was a part, so to speak of the morning ritual. He loomed six feet three in his knitted hose, and as the door was only six feet in height, difficulties of one sort or another were unavoidable. As yet, the door casing had resisted all attacks. All the Rev. Absalom said was “Ouch! Giminy cricket!” And then with increased vigor he continued:
“Our helper he, amid the flood
Of mortal ills pre-vail-ll-ing.
For still our ancient foe,
Doth seek to work us woe—”
The song died—not on the lips of the reverend gentleman, for to say that he sang with his lips would be to do him an injustice. The song died in his resounding throat and his massive lungs, it faded away in his deep diaphragm, and he stood frankly gasping.