“Do you think zey will come?” he asked, addressing Dick.
“I do not know.” Dick’s face was tragic. “I’m afraid, father, they may not come.”
For twenty minutes the priest kept alive a failing conversation. Occasionally, Sandy consulted his watch. Time slipped by.
“Twenty minutes to twelve,” said Sandy, at the end of what seemed like an eternity.
Toma continued his pacing back and forth. Dick sat huddled in his chair. The priest rambled on.
“Ten minutes to twelve,” Sandy informed them.
Dick could endure the suspense no longer. He rose, crossed the room, and flung open the door. A cold draft of air whirled in across the floor. Toma hurried over to where Dick stood and peered over his shoulder. They heard a shout. It brought Sandy and Father Michaud to their feet. Villagers were running in the street. A crowd had gathered.
“They—they’ve come back,” blurted Dick, darting through the door, Toma right behind him. They joined the throng.
In the center of the crowd stood, not Dr. Brady and Father Bleriot, but—and Dick’s heart sank at the sight of him—their captive of the night before. In his hand he waved something—something white. With Toma acting as his interference, and employing football tactics, Dick plunged through, gaining a place by the side of the messenger. He seized the piece of birch bark and scanned it eagerly. It was covered thickly with Indian signs and symbols.
“Toma,” cried Dick, “can you make this out? Tell me, what does it say here?”