Something–something caught it up, the golden log–the first record from space–something snatched it up and whisked it off, off into those blackamoor woods, while the feet of the foremost runner were still many yards away.
“’Twas na the wind! ’Twas mon or deil; I saw it loop out frae the boggart trees!” roared Andrew.
And now in his skirl there was a wild ring of superstition that turned girlish hearts quite cold.
“I saw it loup out frae the dark–dar-rk woods!” he insisted hoarsely.
Ah! but those dim spruce woods were faintly illumined now with strange little dots and dashes of light–the firefly winking passionately, as if somebody, some thief, were running with it.
And they ran, too, its rightful owners, in full cry, calling frantically upon the robber, whether thief, or tempest, to stop.
And the girls kept bravely up with the men. Or one of them did! For all the spice of her chowchow name was afire in Pemrose Lorry now; and she would have tackled the thief, single-handed, to get back her father’s record.
Into the core of darkness–in among the ebony spruce-boughs–the jetty, frowning trunks, the snarling, brambly underbrush, dashed the chase, the hue and cry, not daring to turn on a flashlight and in its glare lose the one little piloting blink ahead, which now seemed to have considerable odds on them, as it fled helter-skelter through the woods.
“My word! this–this beats anything I ever dr-reamed of,” gurgled the college boy. “The Thing, whatever it is, has us nicely fooled. There–there, it has switched off the ‘glim’ now–the little, telltale battery. Now–where are we?”
No one could tell, as they floundered about, three men, and two girls, in the mysterious night-woods–without a clew–Pemrose clinging desolately to her father now, Una to hers–while Andrew, the Church Elder, muttered weird Highland curses.