Mystified, Nancy obeyed.
“Yes, I believe she is. There’s a spark—yes, it’s her light,” she added relievedly. “But how will she chop you out?”
“She carries tools; she’ll have a little chopper—a small ax, you know,” faltered Rosa, relief showing also in her voice.
“You mean a hatchet. Why would she carry a hatchet?”
“Oh, I’ll tell you, sometime; if I ever get out of this,” groaned Rosa, digging her fingers deep into the flesh of Nancy’s arm to which she was clinging.
The faithful little flash-light dispelled what darkness it could reach, as the girl with the small hatchet hurried back to them.
“Now don’t move while I chop,” she ordered sharply. “I’m hours late now, and I’ve got to hurry.”
“Being late—” began Nancy indignantly. But holding back the briars and bushes while Orilla chopped at that which so securely bound Rosa, precluded anything like objections to the apparent heartlessness of Orilla.
“There; I guess you can get up now. Hope to goodness I’m not all stung with poison-ivy,” Orilla snarled, while Nancy gave her entire attention to the unfortunate cousin.
“Put your arm under her other arm,” she ordered Orilla. “Her ankle is hurt, you know,” she finished sarcastically.