The timber consisted of small trees, newly cut into pole lengths and placed into the launch, evidently ready to be carried off.
“That’s queer,” remarked Dell. “What can she want those for?”
“Not for wood,” Nancy replied. “That would stay green all winter. But let’s hurry and hunt. Shall we call now?”
“Here’s their path,” replied Gar, instead of answering. “See how fresh the broken weeds are. Let’s follow this a—ways.”
Nancy’s heart was fairly jumping with excitement. She did not want to guess at how they might find Rosa; whether she would be lying sick in that dark, damp woods, or—
“Hello there!” came a sharp call. “Meet Miss Robinson Crusoe—”
“Rosa!” exclaimed Nancy. “Oh, Rosa!” She couldn’t seem to say anything else just then, the sight of Rosa was such a relief.
“Rosalind Fernell!” was Dell’s emphatic greeting.
“Runaway Rosie,” chuckled Gar, his stout stick beating viciously at the greenery that choked the little pathway.
By this time Rosa was in full view, and the searchers beheld her lugging great bundles of young saplings, her arms scratched and torn from her efforts to carry more of the poles than she could properly manage.