The crisp frosty air was exhilarating, the chance of success spurred him on. He passed a few houses. At the door of one a woman was emptying a pail of dirty water. Tommy stopped a moment to inquire. Luck, good fortune, was in his favour. A man such as he had described had passed up the road the previous evening, so the woman confidently averred. Hope beat high in Tommy’s heart. Never before had he been so close on the track. It had been always three or four days old at the least.
Now the road became desolate of houses, a smooth expanse of unbroken snow lying between stone walls. After a while the road turned a bit to the left, and here there was a largish house—a farmhouse, he judged—lying among trees. He passed it, the road still bearing to the left. Tommy plodded on. The sun was coming up in the east, a glowing ball of fire.
And then suddenly he saw a hut lying back from the road across a bit of moorland. In the [Pg 295]doorway a tall man was standing, a peacock feather in his hat, a white mongrel dog beside him.
Tommy’s heart gave a sudden exultant leap. He turned sharply towards the hut.
CHAPTER XXX
THE RETURN
“How on earth did you find me?” demanded Peter, as the two descended the Cloud together, Democritus following in the rear.
“By the guidance of Providence,” announced Tommy. “It’s been the oddest search imaginable, and if it hadn’t been for that blessed peacock feather I’ll dare swear it had been fruitless. It was a kind of landmark, the one characteristic by which you had been noticed.”
Peter laughed. He was at the moment extraordinarily, exuberantly happy. So can fate play shuttlecock with our lives.