“Then come on, like a good fellow, Scoody, and help to find him.”
“D’ye want to find the laddie wha’s gaun to rob ye o’ ta auld plaace?”
“Yes. Come on, Scood. We mustn’t quarrel, and you won’t be such a brute as to refuse to help me because I’m going to be poor.”
“Puir or rich!” cried the lad, with the tears of excitement in his eyes, “gin ye want her to, she’ll dee for ye, Maister Ken.”
“That’s old Scoody once again,” cried Kenneth, drumming his pony’s flanks; and as the little animal whisked round, Scoodrach caught hold of its long tail, gave the hairs a twist round his hand, and away they went after the others, to whom they soon caught up.
Then followed a long and wearisome search, Scoodrach pointing out the way Max had taken, when, as there was no path or even sheep-track, they divided, and went on mile after mile, only to give up at dark and return tired and faint, and with Scoodrach hanging his head as he felt how he had been the cause of all the trouble; and, seizing the first opportunity, he slipped off with the ponies, to bed them down for the night.
“We must be up at daybreak and begin again, Ken,” said The Mackhai sadly. “That boy must be found. Can you form any idea which way he would take?”
“No, father. I’ve been trying to think, but we seem to have tried everywhere, and I don’t believe he could have gone very far.”
“He had a long start.”
“You don’t think he has come to any harm—slipped over the crags anywhere, or gone into—”