"Can't a man get into trouble without the help of them danged cards? You seem to have 'em on the brain, Jim!" retorted Dick.
Jim sighed resignedly. The fate that made, dealt, and followed those little red crosses was a real and terrible thing to him.
The three took different roads after agreeing to inquire at every house they came to, and, if possible, to get others to help in the search. It was now after one o'clock.
Dick Goodine searched the sides of the road, the edges of fields, the pastures, and every clump of bushes and of timber he came to. He aroused the inmates of one house, made fruitless inquiries, and was informed that the only adult males of the family were away in the lumber woods, and so could not turn out to hunt for the missing sportsman. At last he found himself standing again before Captain Wigmore's residence. He could not say what influence or suggestion had led him back to this spot. He had followed his feet—that is all. One window on the second floor was faintly lighted.
"I'd like to know what that old cuss is doin' up this time of night," he muttered.
He banged at the knocker of the front door until the captain came downstairs.
"You again, Richard!" exclaimed the old man. "Come in. Come in. Still looking for Mr. Banks?"
"Yes. He ain't turned up yet," answered the trapper, stepping into the hall.
"I'll dress and help you hunt for him," said the captain. "He is a particular friend of mine. I can't get to sleep for worrying about him."