“Yes.”
“It would be fine if Red could see it. I—I want him to come back when summer comes.” A dreamy look overspread her face. “Good old summer time,” she murmured, “with southern breezes whispering softly, birches gleaming white in the moonlight and strange birds singing one another to sleep. Summer time—” She was singing softly now: “Good old summer time. Will you come and play with me?”
Red grinned in spite of himself. Then his face sobered as he replied huskily:
“Perhaps—if summer ever comes again for you and me.”
He had not forgotten, would not forget as long as they were on the island, that they were escaped victims of kidnapers, that those men were still about and that he carried in his pocket the magneto parts that would keep them from escaping from the island.
Why did he not cast these bits of metal into the lake where water is deep? Because he had hopes, rather wild hopes, but hopes all the same, that some one would arrive at the island who could pilot that powerful plane. He could not. Ed could not, but there were many who could. So he clung to his hopes and to the magneto parts.
“Come!” said Berley Todd, snuffing out the candle. “Come with me to the place where I have always found happiness—my summer home.”
Obeying her command, Ed strapped on one “shootin’ iron,” handed the other to the young football star, and then led the way out into the night.
The darkness at this moment was complete. Later there was to be a moon, a fact long to be remembered. With the unerring instinct of a woodsman, the scout led the way over the winding path. Berley and Red followed silently.
There were sounds in that night of darkness. Off to the right the snapping of a twig sounded like the report of a gun.