Action was perhaps the best tonic he could have had. As he swung onward, the leg which did not seem to belong to him began to remind him, in no uncertain manner, that it was really his, and that he was responsible for its condition.
A slow pain made itself manifest, running up the member like a streak of lightning and giving Ping a "gone" feeling in the pit of his stomach. But he was "game." Shutting his teeth on more than one groan, he kept resolutely on through the bleak timber, looking and listening.
Finally he came out on a rough crossroad, which he followed. Five minutes of wabbling along this road brought him to the end of it—and across the end squatted a dingy white house with green shutters. The shutters were closed, and the house had the appearance of being deserted.
Here, Ping felt, was the end of his trail. He was on the wrong track, and the question that pressed upon him was what he should do next.
Withdrawing to a clump of bushes, he sat down and gave the matter extended thought.
Who lived in the house? And was there any one at home? If there was any one in the place, would they talk with him and tell him whether they had seen Matt or the side-show man?
Ping, unlike Carl, made no boasts of being a "tedectif." He could blunder around and, maybe, stumble upon something worth while, but it would be purely a hit-and-miss performance.
Yes, he decided, he had better go to the house and see whether there was anybody there.
Barely had he made up his mind when, with amazing suddenness, Bill Wily rushed around the corner of the house, jammed a key into the door, and disappeared.
He did not close the door behind him, being, as it seemed, in too much of a hurry to attend to such trifling matters.