David pointed to writing upon it.
“Mr. Murphy Biddulph, Malford,” read Elizabeth aloud. And then she laughed.
David lifted up his voice and coo-ed, a long, far-reaching note. Striking some distant rock, it was flung back to him in echo, but no other cry came in response.
“They’ve gone a pretty tramp,” said David.
He looked around. A short distance ahead the wood levelled and thinned. A gateway into it led to a wider path. A tree-trunk fallen across the river, which here was nothing but a fair-sized stream, made approach to the gate easy. David made for the tree-trunk. Giving Elizabeth a hand across it, they went towards the gate.
David looked at the ground, then pointed silently. A dark patch on the earth, just under the gate, showed where water had been recently spilt.
“Molly has upset some of the contents of her can in climbing the gate,” laughed David.
There was triumph in his eyes. There is a good deal of pleasure to be found in successful scouting, let alone the importance, or non-importance of its issue.
They surmounted the gate and made off down the path. After some five minutes or so walking, it led to a second gate, this one giving on to a road. David opened it and they went through. Here, in the dust, were small footprints, easily discernible as going leftwards.
“Who would have dreamed of their coming this distance!” exclaimed Elizabeth.