“We won’t find them here.”
Little Turkey Trot was now fully convinced that his sister and Florence had been taken captive by these strange dark people. He knew little of gypsies. He had heard that they carried people away. He did not wish to disturb Petite Jeanne, so he said not a word. Such was the big heart of the village boy.
“Might as well go home,” was his conclusion.
Jeanne did not question this. They passed around the staring cabin and down the trail toward the ruins of the lumber camp.
Turkey Trot walked rapidly. Jeanne, who was afraid of tripping in the dark, was a little way behind him, when she came abreast of the black bunk house that gloomed in the dark. She stole one glance at it. Then her heart stood still. From the depths of that darkness two eyes gleamed at her.
“Green eyes!” She barely missed crying aloud.
With three bounds she was at Turkey Trot’s side.
Even then she did not speak. The boy had not seen the things. Why disturb him? Perhaps she had seen nothing. Those eyes may have been a creation of her overwrought imagination. So she reasoned, and was silent.
Turkey Trot was firm in his belief that the missing girls had been carried away. He fastened a rope to the remains of Tillie’s painter, and took the boat in tow.
“They won’t be back for it,” he muttered. “Big seas come in here. Smash it up.”