I got ready to run. Perhaps I had even started, when Elsie called me back.
"It is only Davie Elshiner, the night poacher," she cried. "I can see the patch on the left knee of his trousers. Nance Edgar sewed it on. I saw her."
And as neither of us were in the least afraid of Davie Elshiner, alive, dead, asleep, awake, drunk, sober, or in any intermediate state, we hailed him. But he did not answer our shouts. So we went to look. And as we went I said to Elsie, "What if he has been a witness to the deed and they have killed him, too!"
"Come on," she said, grabbing me, "let's see, any way—we can't stop now!"
"But suppose they should kill us!" I could hardly get the words out. I was not frightened, only I seemed to lose my voice. Funny, wasn't it? Elsie hushed me down quick, and said, nastily, that if I was afraid I could take her hand or go home to nursie.
Afraid! Me afraid! Likely! Would I have been there if I had been afraid? But it was Davie, right enough, and we were both relieved. He had a good backful of fish, regular preserved water beauties that never could have been got except in the Duke's pools on the Bram Burn. They were all done up in fern leaves, as nice as ninepence, and as freckly as Fred Allen's nose. But Davie had stopped by the way after catching them. A flask and the remains of a loaf told why.
"Davie," said Elsie, shaking him; "wake up, man, we have something to ask you!"
Davie opened his eyes. He was dazed, not so much at the bright sun and the heather—he was used to that—but at seeing us. And he looked all round about him to take his bearings.
"What are you doing so far from home?" he asked, sitting up on his elbow. "The dominie will thrash you!"
"Davie," said Elsie, "did you see Harry Foster this morning?"