“I declare! You are lost!” said Agnes.
“What is your name?” Ruth asked of the older of the three.
“Pendleton. I’m Margy Ortwell, and my sister is Carrie Purvis, and my brother is Reginald Shotford Pendleton.”
“Huh!” grumbled the boy, “and they call me ‘Reggy’ and I hate it.”
“Make ’em call you ‘Shot,’” suggested Sammy promptly. “That’s a dandy name. Sounds like you belonged out West—or—or was one of those moving-picture fellows. Yep; Shot Pendleton sounds good to me.”
Neale O’Neil shouted with laughter, and Luke grinned broadly. But this was no time for laughter in the opinion of the older girls. That man might really be dead.
“Come! Lead us back to where your father has fallen,” said Ruth urgently, to Margy Pendleton.
The little girl turned rather waveringly and started off through the thicker wood. But her brother cried:
“Hey! Where you going, Marge? That ain’t the way we came.”