"Bill's gone and drowned hisself, or run away," she sobbed. "He knew he'd catch it extra hard; and I shall never see my boy again—my only boy."
"My good woman," said the Squire soothingly, "you may be quite sure your boy has too much respect for his own life, to do anything so foolish as jump into the river. Far more likely he is hiding somewhere near about, until the storm is past; so dry your eyes, and tell me what you can."
Mrs. Mumby obeyed.
"He's took a lot o' food out o' the cupboard," said she, choking down her sobs, and speaking through her apron. "Pretty nigh a half a quartern loaf, he did. I always have 'em in a day before, to get 'em stale."
"Proof positive," said Will, "he's run away."
"What should he want with bread in the river, I wonder!" giggled Sigismund, snacking at the flies with a bit of whip-cord, and half thinking of Bill the whole time.
"He may have gone into the woods," observed the Squire, half to himself.
"Picnicking," put in Will.
"Has any search been made?" continued his grandfather aloud to Mrs. Mumby.
The mother answered tearfully that all the neighbours had turned out with lanterns after dark, on hearing that the boy had not come home; and many people in the village street had joined the search. Every outhouse and haystack in the neighbourhood had been ransacked; and many of the searchers had not given up till dawn.