“There you are,” said the Cubs, “we told you so—Black Bill’s stolen him.”
Mr. Beak, the bailiff, and the foreman from the farm were sent down to the gipsy camp to make inquiries as to whether Danny had been seen there the night before; but Black Bill said he had not noticed any Scout at his circus, and it was impossible to gather any information.
The Cubs were in despair.
“Look here!” said David, “we must take the search into our own hands. Let’s call a Council.” So they called a Council, and the whole Six assembled in the old pigsty.
“Boys!” cried David, standing on an upturned trough, “Danny, our chief, has been stolen by Black Bill. No one will believe it—no one will go to his rescue. Who is ready to take up the quest? Who will promise to die rather than give up the search?”
“I!” yelled everybody, jumping up.
David was very pale; this was no game, and the sorrow and anxiety of the Cubs was very real. “Let us all swear, here, to each other, as Cubs, that we will go out and face any danger, and not rest till we have found Danny.”
Solemnly they promised. Suddenly Nipper cried, “P’raps he’s dead!” And buried his face in a truss of straw and made noises that sounded suspiciously like sobs. The others turned away in disgust; it’s all very well to feel like crying—any chap may do that—but no Cub gives in to himself and does it, he sets to work and does something really useful and helpful.
Bill cleared his throat and began to speak.
“I vote,” he said, “that we elect David boss of this show, and make proper plans, and then start off at once.”