But when, at the first turn of the road, he saw Christopher plodding towards him, he ran back in sudden tremor. He wanted to think a moment. There was so much to say. The old man came into sight again, near at hand, before Wade had control of the tumult of his thoughts.
The sled was empty.
Christopher scuffed along slowly, munching a biscuit.
“They wouldn’t let her go? I—I thought they had made you stay—you were so long!” gasped the young man, trying by words of his own to calm his fear.
“She isn’t there, Mr. Wade,” said the old man, finishing his biscuit, and speaking with an apparent calmness which maddened the young man. This old man, placidly wagging his jaws, seemed a part of the stolid indifference of the woods.
“I brought you something to eat, Mr. Wade,” Christopher went on. He fumbled at his breast-pocket. “We’ve got tough work ahead of us. You can’t do it on an empty stomach.”
“My God! what are you saying, Straight?” demanded the young man. “They’re lying to you. She is there. She must be. There’s no one—”
“And I say she isn’t there,” insisted Christopher, with quiet firmness. “I know what I’m talking about. You’re only guessin’.”
“They lied to you to save themselves.”