Then, breathless, he paused in a little level space above a great rock and set the child down.
“Don’t be frightened, Tony,” he said; “we’re going to take you home. And don’t scream when I take this handkerchief out because that will spoil it all.”
“Is it safe to stop here?” Hervey asked.
“Sure, they’ll go down the path when they want to hunt for him. They’ll never get down here. The mountain is with us now.”
“I didn’t drop my whistle,” the little fellow piped up, as if that were his chief concern.
“Good,” said Tom, in an effort to interest him and put him at ease. “That’s a dandy whistle; tell us about it. Because we’re your friends, you know.”
“Am I going to see my mother and father?”
“You bet. Away down there is a big camp where there are lots of boys and you’re going to stay there till they come and get you.”
“They sent me to the spring to get water and I took my whistle so I could soak it in the water, because that makes it go good. I made it myself, that whistle.”
Tom, his clothes torn, his face and hands bleeding from scratches, sat upon the edge of a big rock with the little fellow drawn tight against him.