Southward! The Pritchard Mills, one of them the largest shingle mill in the world! Ships were always loading there; of course that was where Max would turn next. The millman said one ship was due to sail with the tide that night if she could get a crew. The captain had been unable to sail sooner for lack of men.
Max would surely be taken! Sydney must hurry. He asked for a horse and was laughed at. Horses there in those dense forests were “scarce as hen’s teeth.”
There was nothing for it but to walk—nine miles. Sydney knew the road skirting the shore for he had traveled it when on a “hike” with his troop; but in daylight and with a guide was a different matter; now it was nearing dark—it must be half past seven. Yet he must try it; yes, try, and succeed! He must, must arrive before the ship sailed.
He started off slowly, for he had run the two miles from the Reservation with no thought of saving himself; now he must husband his strength if he would endure, arrive. It was too bad that he could not begin with speed for the first three miles were open and clear; the dark road was farther on.
Yet he restrained himself sternly, and in spite of the light fog he saw settling beneath the early stars. There were many short cut-offs where a dim path led over some sharp pitch that the road circled at sea level. Sydney took these as long as he could see, noting that many cow paths led off at various angles, and were in some cases more distinct than the right one.
After a time he broke into his best pace, choosing his path as carefully as possible. He judged he had traveled about five miles when he came to a tongue of heavily wooded land making far out into the Sound.
The trail was good and he had little difficulty in keeping it. Once or twice he found himself a few steps off, but was quickly warned by the difficult going. Yet so long the tramp seemed to him that he feared he had lost the way, and was beginning to despair, when he heard the welcome lap-lap of the waves, and was soon on the wagon road again, with the distant lights of Pritchard Mills beckoning cheerily in long, brilliant spikes through the thin fog, and several ships a-light riding at anchor in the harbor.
Heartened, Sydney ran on at fine speed over the smooth springy road, arriving at the wharfinger’s office, spent and breathless, but in good spirits. No ship was leaving.
Sydney described Max.