In
the dusk their eyes were near together; Garst's were stern, Dol's
blinking and unsteady.
"Adolphus Farrar," began Cyrus in a voice as if he was making an arrest,
"have you been here in this camp, or where have you been, while your
brother and I were searching the woods like maniacs? What unheard-of
folly possessed you to go off by yourself?"
Dol made a gurgling attempt to answer, but his voice rattled and died
away in his throat. His eyes grew decidedly leaky.
"Say, Cyrus!" interrupted the man who had befriended him and now proved
his champion, "let the youngster get breath and tell his story from
start to finish before you blow him up. I guess he wasn't much to blame;
and if he was, he has suffered for it. He found his way here not quite
half an hour ago, so played out from wandering through the forest that
he was ready to drop in his tracks. And I tell you he showed his grit
too; for he managed to brace up and keep on his feet, though he was as
exhausted a kid as ever I saw."
The "kid," forgiving this objectionable term because of the soothing
allusion to a trying time when he had behaved like a man, winked and
gulped to get rid of his emotion, and twisted his elbows out of Cyrus's
hold.
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