They set off down the road. Both walked jauntily, as though to hide some secret apprehension.
"Hope we'll be able to rescue them," said William, with an attempt at lightness.
"Oh, that'll be all right," said Ginger, with an unconvincing carelessness of tone.
In both their minds was a horrible vision in which the twins' mother played the part of avenging fury.
They walked up the drive. The twins were not on the doorstep. A broken milk-jug alone marked the scene of their parting from the twins. Their hearts sank yet farther as they surveyed it.
"Well," said Ginger, moistening his lips, "we'd better start rescuin'."
Drawing a deep breath, he rang the bell. Again the echoes died away in distant regions. Again there came no sounds of human habitation. There was horror on William's freckled face. His naturally wild hair was at its wildest. The vision of the outraged parent of the twins seemed to fill the whole world.
"They're sure to be somewhere," said Ginger, still with his gallant but ineffectual attempt at lightness.
"Oh, yes!" agreed William gloomily. "You can tell her that!"
They searched the garden. They threw stones at the windows. They called: "Georgie!" and "Johnnie!" hoarsely, and with a pathetic appeal they had never used to those infants before. Then they turned very slowly towards the gate.