“I didn’t say anything about ‘soft-boiled’,” contradicted the youth. “And I’m as anxious about her as you are.”
“But, look here! it isn’t wasting time.” She caught at her throat. “Father’s—father’s new crystal, you know—more sensitive than galena!”
“Oh! I know your father is a Wizard.”
“Then—be a dear boy and do this for me,” Pemrose looked up at him, sidelong, coaxingly; “loop this aërial around that tree.”
The boy was accustomed to find those blue eyes “too sweet for music”, as he freakishly put it; before the agony in them and the wild suspense, he found himself weakening.
“But—but we ought to tear right up there.” He pointed along the rough bridle path to a steep summit above. “It—it’s on this mountain, Little Poco, as the farmers call it, that miserable thief-animal, kidnapper—horrible aunt—who stole Una’s picture before she stole her—has her shack—cabin—so-o they say.”
“The farmers, three or four of them, are searching this m-mountain.” Pemrose tried to speak calmly. “Her father has ridden—is riding—up the other trail to the top. And we don’t know—we don’t know that she’s here, at all, or near here. Word—word has gone out to every radio station in this district, describing Una, asking whether any one has seen a girl on a bay horse—so early in the morning we might be able to pick up something, a hint of news; even—even this tiny—receiving—set—”
She looked down at her outstretched forefinger—at the amber, bakelite ring, coiled with the hundreds of turns of hairwire; at the “radio soul” of the great inventor’s new crystal, shining softly—softly in the early light.
“Oh-h! I say—drop this foolishness and ride on.” The boy-aviator threw up his hands. “See! The horses—they don’t know what to make of it. Cartoon is looking round at me—like a nervous individual, with glasses on.” He tried to laugh.
Cartoon was bending his stubborn Roman nose to the edge of the dark mountain swamp now, to nibble—failing to make sense of the halt.