In the hall they paused a moment--a question of doors.
"Back," said Uncle Felix.
"Front's better," decided the boy. "Then nobody'll think anything, you
see." He was quick to put the new principle into practice.
On the lawn there was another pause, this time a question of
direction.
"The wood, of course!" And they set off together at a steady trot. Few
words were wasted when Tim went "busting about" in this way. Uncle
Felix resigned himself and looked to him for guidance; there was some
one to be rescued; there was danger to be run; the risk was bigger
than either of them realised; but more than that he knew not.
"Got a handkerchief with you?" the boy asked presently.
"Yes, thanks; got everything," panted the other.
"For signalling," was offered three minutes later by way of
explanation, "in case we get lost--or anything like that."
"Quite so."
"Is it a clean one?"
"Yes."
"Good!"
They climbed the swinging gate of iron, rushed the orchard, crossed
the smaller hayfield in the open, heedless of the rabbits that rolled
like fat balls into pockets made to fit them, slipped out of sight
behind a stack of straw whose threatening lopsidedness seemed to
support a ladder, and so eventually came to a breathless and
perspiring halt upon the edges of a--wood.
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