"I'll put
you on mine. It will be slow going, of course--lame as he is--but I
guess we can manage to get somewhere."
He waited for the chill, impersonal reply. When she did not speak, he
leaned and peered at the spot where he knew she must be. "If you want to
try it, we'd better be starting," he urged sharply. "It's going to be
pretty cold here on this side-hill."
When there was silence still--and he gave her plenty of time for
reply--Ford stooped and felt gropingly for her, thinking she must be
asleep. He glanced back at Rambler; unless the horse had moved, she
should have been just there, under his hands; or, he thought, she may
have moved to some other spot, and be waiting in the dark to see what he
would do. His palms touched the pressed grasses where she had been, but
he did not say a word. He would not give her that satisfaction; and he
told himself grimly that he had his opinion of a girl who would waste
time in foolery, out here in the cold--with a sprained ankle, to boot.
He pulled a handful of the long grass which grows best among bushes. It
was dead now, and dry. He twisted it into a makeshift torch, lighted and
held it high, so that its blaze made a great disk of brightness all
around him.
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