But when he looked, he saw a sweet little face, stained with tears but unmarred by claw or tooth, the lips red with life, her breath coming evenly.
At once he turned and gave a great shout which Robert echoed; and both blew their whistles. Instantly came replies. The sudden noise woke the child in fright, and she screamed and cowered closer; yet in a second she hushed, and peered cautiously out from her leafy nook.
“Don’t be afraid, little kid,” Billy said softly, not touching her lest that might add to her fear. “You’re lost and we’ve been hunting you a long time. Come out. Are you hungry?”
Between each sentence he paused, thinking she might be dazed with wandering, loneliness, and sleep, and could not at once realize that they meant her no harm. “Don’t be afraid, little girl,” he said again. “We’ve come to take you home.”
She sat up and looked the boys over with calm, questioning eyes that measured them well before she spoke. “Are you a gypsy man? Because if you are, you won’t take me home, but to your gypsy country.”
“Not so bad as that, baby; just American boys going to take you to your mama.”
“I’m not a baby,” she gravely replied, creeping out of her nest, surprisingly free from stiffness. “I’m seven, and my name is Signa.” But when she put her weight on her brier-torn foot she winced and cried out with pain.
Billy opened his knapsack and offered her some crackers and cheese. “Here! Eat this. You must be awfully hungry.”
She took the food, but ate slowly, at which the boys marvelled; they had expected to see her bolt it.
“Have you had anything to eat since you ran away?”