Neither spoke a word. As they passed Widow Wisdom’s, Denton darted in.
“Have your fire alight and some food ready. Some of our youngsters have been all night on the mountain. We’re going to look for them.”
Half-way to the lake, they were pulled up by a shout from across the stream. It was Percy Wheatfield, dead beat, sitting on a log, as white and miserable as a ghost.
“I say, have you chaps seen Wally?” he called.
“No; we’re off to look. Some of them have turned up. Can you get as far as Widow Wisdom’s? There’s a roaring fire and some grub waiting there. We’ll see after Wally.”
Percy staggered to his feet. He had been wandering, he could not say where, all night. The very mention of the words “fire” and “food” revived him.
“Get up to school as soon as you can and get to bed. You can’t be any use looking for the rest. There’s plenty of us to do that. Good-bye.”
It was half-past seven when they reached the lake and turned up the mountain path. The mist had vanished, and the late autumn sun was shining brightly on the hill-side. The distant barking of a dog above apprised them that some one was abroad already, and the hopes of the searchers rose within them as they struck up the steep slope.
Half-way up they stood and shouted; but no reply came except the far-away barking of the shepherd’s dogs. “We shall be able to see a good way all round when we get on to the ridge,” said Denton.
Almost as he spoke, a shout close by startled them. Looking up they perceived emerging from behind some boulders a little procession.