“Of course I do, sir. I told you so. This aren’t the place, I’m sure.”
“It is! it is!” said Fred, with passionate energy, “Here, I am touching the old tree; and, yes—I know. Here is the place where he must be lying.”
“Very well, then, sir, stoop down and lay hold of his leg gently, and give it a pull. Be on the look-out, for he can be very nasty at being woke up. Maybe he’ll kick out. He used to when we were boys.”
Fred felt dizzy as he listened to his companion’s careless utterance, and he asked himself whether he should tell him what he thought. Twice over he was on the point of speaking, but he clung to the hope that his ideas might be only fancy, and he stood there turning icily cold.
The idea seemed so terrible—to stoop down there in that utter darkness and touch the form of the poor fellow who had been left in despair and loneliness to die, untended and without a soul to whom he could say a farewell word. No; he could not do it, and he felt as if he must turn and rush out of the wood.
“Feel him, Master Fred?” whispered Samson.
Again the sensation of cold and dread came over Fred, and he was about to yield to it and hurry away, when his determination mastered, and, setting his teeth fast, he bent down, went upon hands and knees, and felt on before him, letting his hand sink slowly so as to reverently touch him who he felt must be lying dead.
“Well, sir—got him?”
“No!” whispered Fred, hoarsely, as his hand touched the twigs and leaves.
“Try again, sir.”