"Lucky girl."
So carrying on a disjointed conversation they worked their way round to the foot of the cliff.
"Shall I take you back to the camp or shall I have a look for the—man, first?"
"We'll have a look for Sam first. I'm all right on level ground."
"No, you're not. You stay there." He put her down on the ground, and made his way through the trees to the cliff.
He searched up and down; there was no sign of a body dead or alive, no sign of derangement, nothing to indicate tragedy. There was a rustle of bird life all round him and a cheerful chorus of early morning song in the bushes outside, for this was just on the edge of the wood. He went up and down gazing over head and under foot; the trees here were mostly firs, young spruce firs with heavy, carpety foliage interlocking, shutting out the light.
He went back to the girl. "I'll take you back and go for a doctor while your people come and look for him."
"He's gone home," she said.
That one word "home" is used to describe a vast number of widely differing places.
"I hope to God he has—to the camp, I mean."