But at last he slept.
They were astir at five o’clock, and breakfast was soon over, when they were off again. They stopped first at the farmhouse to hear the latest word, which was not encouraging. The men had been out all night and found no trace; now they were starting for the lake where nearly all felt the search would end.
Not Billy. He decided that, if the lake proved the child’s fate, it mattered little when she was found. Yet she might be in the forest; and with the endorsement of the others he set about a still more careful hunt in the woods.
Through the forenoon, which was clear and warm, they travelled by twos, taking many by-paths they had neglected the day before. The going was hard, and their faces were scratched by thorn and brier. They climbed logs and delved into many a hidden hole where the child never would have thought of going, unless she had crept there in fear. Billy kept the details well abreast of one another by whistles and calls, and as fast as possible made their general direction toward home, for soon they must give up the search and be on their way.
Near noon a shout from Bob who was following up one side of a huge fallen tree halted Billy on the other side. “I’ve found the flag!”
Billy ran around the towering root of the trunk. It was true, but such a flag! Creased, torn, and soiled, it was hardly recognizable. Where it lay, the ferns and wild grasses were trampled as if some light thing had walked about, perhaps lain there.
A whistle said imperatively “Come!” and Billy, marking the spot and the way, followed the call to find Mumps and Hugh excited over a little black stocking. That, too, was torn; and a dark spot on it showed where briers had pierced the tender skin.
“We’re warm!” Billy exclaimed. “We’ll find her near here, or—” He did not finish; but each knew what Billy did not voice. They forgot their own fatigue; their scratched hands and weary feet. A fresh strength invaded them as a tide from some unknown sea of life. They divided again, travelling faster and in parallel lines following the direction pointed by flag and stocking.
It was perhaps half an hour later when Billy’s quick eye detected a splotch of white protruding from under a fallen log ahead. He called to Robert and ran forward, his heart beating with mingled fear and hope of what he should see. His feet were lead and would not move, he thought; yet he was running fast, catching in tangles, recovering, jumping logs, fighting each clinging, hindering vine and shrub.
When he reached the place he saw what he sought—the child. One small scratched bare foot lay out from under the torn white frock, beside the other, hardly more protected by its torn shoe and stocking. With a sick fear Billy bent to look upon the face hidden by the drooping ferns.