And she still kept the long wooden bench poised above her head.
Pinky saw a dangerous look in the woman's eyes.
“Put that thing down,” she cried, “and don't be a fool. Let me see;” and she darted past the woman and ran up stairs. She found the window of Andy's prison open and the print of his little fingers on the snow-covered sill outside, where he had held on before dropping to the ground, a distance of many feet. There was no doubt now in her mind as to the truth of the woman's story. The child had made his escape.
“Have you been into all the neighbors' houses?” asked Pinky as she came down hastily.
“Into some, but not all,” she replied.
“How long is it since he got away?”
“More than two hours.”
“And you've been sticking down here, instead of ransacking every hole and corner in the neighborhood. I can hardly keep my hands off of you.”
The woman was on the alert. Pinky saw this, and did not attempt to put her threat into execution. After pouring out her wrath in a flood of angry invectives, she went out and began a thorough search of the neighborhood, going into every house for a distance of three or four blocks in all directions. But she could neither find the child nor get the smallest trace of him. He had dropped out of sight, so far as she was concerned, as completely as if he had fallen into the sea.