onstrances. Only when he was convinced
of the uselessness of further search in the pool's depths, did he give
over the task, and cast himself down on the sand to rest, panting and
trembling a little from fatigue.

"They hain't thar," he said, with grim conviction. Then he voiced the
question that hammered in his brain: "Whar be they?"

But the marshal had no answer.

As they made their way drearily back toward the Woodruff Gate, the
officer broke a long silence:

"Only a blood-hound can trail them!"

The gloom of Uncle Dick's expression did not lighten.

"They hain't nary one in the mountings," he answered, heavily.

"None nearer than Suffolk, Virginia," the marshal said. "Cyclone Brant
has a couple of good ones. But it would cost a lot."

The old man flared.

"Fer God's sake, git thet-thar feller an' his dawgs. I hain't axin'
what hit 'll cost. Hit was my money got thet-thar damned cuss out o'
the jail-house. I hain't likely to begrudge anythin' hit 'll cost to
git him kotched. An' Plutiny!--why, money don't matter none, if I can
save Plutiny!"

"I'll send for Brant to-night," the marshal promised, with new
cheerfulness. "Let's hope he's not off somewhere. They send for him
all over the country. If the dogs start day after to-morrow, they'll
still find the scent."

Uncle Dick groaned.

"An' her a-lyin' out with thet-thar wolf all thet while," he mumbled,
in despair. "Mebby, this very minute, she's a-screamin'--callin' to
her ole gran'pap to save her. My Plutiny!" He walked with lagging
steps; the tall form, usually so erect, was bowed under the burden of
tormenting fears. The marshal, understanding, ventured no word of
comfort.

It was late afternoon when the dispirited searchers reached the Siddon
clearing on their return from the fruitless day's work. There, they
were astonished to see the Widow Higgins come down the path toward
them, at a pace ordinarily forbidden by her rheumatic joints. She
waved a paper in her hand.

"Hit's a telegraph," she called shrilly. Her voice held something of
the awe with which remoter regions still regard that method of
communication. But there was a stronger emotion still that thus sent
the old woman dancing in forgetfulness of her chronic pains. It was
explained in her next sentence, cried out with a mother's exultation
in the homecoming of her beloved. Almost, in joy over seeing her son
again, she forgot the misery that was bringing him.

"Hit's from Zekie! Zekie