“Well, frankly, Nancy,” Dell replied, “I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that she carried a shotgun, for the reputation given her around here is as vague as it is mysterious. Everybody seems to have a different story about Orilla Rigney.”
“Yet she’s—industrious, and honest, I suppose,” pressed Nancy.
“All of that—too industrious. She not only works herself but wants to make the whole world work with her. Perhaps she’s a case of misdirected energy. You know, Nancy, they say nowadays that that’s as bad as sheer laziness,” explained the older girl.
Sounds from treetops or from thickets attracted their notice then, and conversation was suddenly discontinued. But no sign of human life rewarded the most careful scrutiny of the searchers.
“I don’t see how they could be around here without making some noise,” Dell remarked.
“Take—no—chances!” hissed Gar, striking a comical poise with his mountain stick held high above his head, and his free arm struck out at right angles. His attempt at humor was rewarded with a wan smile from Nancy, but Dell only waved her club threateningly.
“We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, you know, Gar,” said Dell seriously, “and we mustn’t forget there is no guarantee of continued fair weather.”
“I’m going to yell,” the boy suddenly announced. “Better take a chance on Rosa hearing us than leave it all to the big gray fox.”
A series of mountain calls followed. They were varied, queer, weird, owlish and even funny, for Gar proved to be an expert in the art.
No answer came. Instead, the silence of the woods after its interruption seemed even deeper than before.