He knew his father would not have gone very far from the camp in search of game, because he was on foot, and there was no more promising place for sport than within the radius of a mile from where they had halted. Besides, when hunting took the form of labor which must be performed, Richard Stevens was not one who would continue it long, unless he was remarkably hungry.
Young Dick's mother gave words to her anxiety several times; but the boy argued with her that no harm could have befallen the absent one in that vicinity, and for a time her fears were allayed.
When another hour passed, however, and nothing was heard from his father, even Dick lost courage, and believed that the culminating point in their troubles had been reached.
His mother and Margie had entered the wagon when night was fully come, knowing they must go supperless to bed unless the hunter returned; and to Dick the thought that these two whom he loved so dearly were hungry, brought him almost as much sorrow as the unaccountable absence of his father.
He believed, however, that it was his duty to appear unconcerned, as if confident his father's prolonged absence did not betoken danger. He trudged to and fro in the immediate vicinity of the vehicle, at times whistling cheerily to show there was no trouble on his mind; and again, when it was impossible to continue the melody because of the sorrow in his heart, repeated to his mother that nothing serious could have befallen the absent one, that probably he had unconsciously wandered a long distance from the camp on the trail of game.
"It don't stand to reason he will try to make his way now it is dark, mother dear; but within an hour or two after sunrise he'll be here, and the breakfast we shall then have will make up for the loss of supper."
Mrs. Stevens made no reply; and listening a moment, Dick heard the sound of suppressed sobs.
His mother was in distress, and he could do no more toward comforting her than repeat what he did not absolutely believe.
He knew full well that unless some accident had befallen him, his father would have returned before dark; that he would not have allowed himself to be led so far away from the camping-place that he could not readily return; and the boy's sorrow was all the greater because it was impossible to console his mother.
Clambering into the wagon, he put his arms around her neck, pressing his cheek close against hers, and during what seemed a very long while the two remained silent, not daring to give words to their fears.