But this was a different matter. This involved Mark's honor. It was up
to him to find Mark!
Billy did not take the High road down from his detour. He cut across
below the Crossroads, over rough ground, among the underbrush, and
parting the low growing trees was lost in the gloom of the woods. But
he knew every inch of ground within twenty miles around, and darkness
did not take away his sense of direction. He crashed along among the
branches, making steady headway toward the spot where he had left his
bicycle, puffing and panting, his face streaked with dirt, his eyes
bleared and haggard, his whole lithe young body straining forward and
fighting against the dire weariness that was upon him, for it was not
often that he stayed up all night. Aunt Saxon saw to that much at
least.
The sky was growing rosy now, and he could hear the rumbling of the
milk train. It was late. Pat would not lose his job this time, for he
must have had plenty of time to get back to the station. Billy wormed
himself under cover as the train approached, and bided his time.
Cautiously, peering from behind the huckleberry growth, he watched Pat
slamming the milk cans around. He could see his bicycle lying like a
dark skeleton of a thing against the gravel bank. It was lucky he got
there before day, for Pat would have been sure to see it, and it might
have given him an idea that Billy had gone with the automobile.
The milk train came suddenly in sight through the tunnel, like a
lighted thread going through a needle. It rumbled up to the station.
There was a rattling of milk cans, empty ones being put on, full cans
being put off, grumbling of Pat at the train hands, loud retorts of the
train hands, the engine puffed and wheezed like a fat old lady going
upstairs and stopping on every landing to rest. Then slamming of car
doors, a whistle, the snort of the engine as it took up its way again
out toward the rosy sky, its headlight weird like a sick candle against
the dawn, its tail light winking with a leer and mocking at the
mountains as it clattered away like a row of gray ducks lifting webbed
feet and flinging back space to the station.
Pat rolled the loaded truck to the other platform ready for the Lake
train at seven, and went in to a much needed rest. He slammed the door
with a finality that gave Billy relief. The boy waited a moment more in
the gathering dawn, and then made a dash for the open, salvaging his
bicycle, and diving back into the undergrowth.