"A little bit," admitted Roger with a laugh.

So the boys drove a short way out of the village, and pulled the white horse up along side of a gra.s.sy bank. After Adrian had fixed the oats, which they had brought with them, so that the patient nag could eat, he opened the lunch his mother had put up for him and Roger. There was a clear spring of water near by, and from this the boys and the horse drank. It was like a picnic instead of work, Roger thought, as he breathed in the pure, cool air, and felt his cheeks glowing in the October sun.

The meal over they took a brief rest, and then resumed the trip. In the next village they succeeded in disposing of all the remaining grapes, the dusty miller of the town taking the last four baskets. Thus, with about fifteen dollars snugly tucked away in his pocket, Adrian felt that he and Roger had accomplished something worth while, for he had received a little higher price for the fruit by peddling it around than if he had sold it to Mr. Andrews, who would have paid wholesale rates, while the boys had done business at retail.

"I don't call this bad," commented Adrian as he turned the horse for the journey home.

"I should say not," agreed Roger, heartily.

It was the first time he had ever taken an active part in any real business transactions, and it made him want to do more in that line when he saw how self-reliant Adrian had been in the trading.

When the boys reached Tully on the return trip it was five o'clock. They had eight miles to drive, but, as Adrian knew the road, he didn't mind the gathering darkness, though to Roger it seemed strange, for he had never driven in the country after nightfall. In the city it was very light after dark, but here in Cardiff it was almost as black as ink when twilight had faded, for there were no street lamps to dispel the gloom.

It was mostly down-hill going now, and the old white horse, knowing his stable and a manger full of oats was ahead of him, jogged rapidly along.

It grew darker and darker, until, when they reached the top of the long slope of Tully hill, the last vestige of the slanting rays of the sun disappeared, and night had settled down. Calling cheerfully to the horse Adrian whistled a merry tune, and Roger joined in. Then they talked of various topics,--of the success of their trip, and what they would do to-morrow and next day.

"That's the last house in the village of Tully," said Adrian, suddenly, indicating a lonely cabin. "Pete Hallenbeck lives there, but he can't be home to-night, or there'd be a light in the window. He's lived all alone since his wife died. After we pa.s.s this there's not a place where anybody lives for three miles, until we get to the edge of Cardiff."

They went along for a mile or so, whistling and singing. Suddenly there was a jolt of the wagon, and Roger, who was sitting well toward the front of the seat, felt himself thrown forward with considerable force.

Instinctively he stuck out his hands, and he felt them strike the broad haunches of the horse. Then, with a rattle and bang he kept on falling down until he had rolled out completely on the animal's back, and thence off to one side, into the soft gra.s.s along the road, where he lay stunned.

He could hear, as in a dream, Adrian faintly shouting to him, and then something seemed to flash by him. There was a confused rattle and rumble that grew fainter and fainter, and the blackness became more intense.

As if he was falling fast asleep he heard a voice calling: "Roger!

Roger!"

Then his eyes seemed to close tightly and he knew nothing more, as he lay in a huddled heap on the ground.

CHAPTER VII

LOST ON THE MOUNTAIN

Roger seemed to be sinking down into some dark pit, falling lower and lower, until he appeared to strike against something and bound upward. A myriad of stars danced before his eyes, and, as he thus floated upward, he instinctively put up his hands to avoid contact with whatever might be above him. Then, with a suddenness that startled him, he came to his senses and found himself sitting at the side of the road, in the damp gra.s.s, while all around was pitchy blackness.

He rubbed his eyes and the back of his head, and he was somewhat alarmed when his hand came away wet with blood from a slight wound. He tried to stand, but found he was too tottery on his legs.

"Well," he managed to say, "there must have been an accident. I fell off the wagon, that's sure, and from the way my head feels I must have struck on a stone. Guess I cut myself too, but not badly," as he failed to find any serious wound on his scalp.

He rubbed his hands in the damp gra.s.s and drew them out dripping with dew. He dabbled this water on his forehead and felt better.

"I think the horse must have run away," he went on, "or else I'd see something of Adrian by this time, though it's as dark as a pocket here, and hard enough to locate your hand before your face, let alone somebody away down the road."

Roger listened intently, but could catch no sound of rattling wheels, nor the beating of a horse's hoofs, which might have indicated that the wagon was coming back. All about was silence and darkness. The boy tried again to stand up, and found that his momentary weakness had pa.s.sed.

"I guess I'd better walk on until I meet Adrian," he said to himself.

"He'll be sure to be coming back soon," and he started off in the direction he thought was toward Cardiff.

Now if Roger had lived all his life in the country, or if he had been more familiar with the road, he probably would have had no trouble in starting on the right way back home. Very likely he would have done so instinctively; or he might have gotten his bearings from the stars, which shone overhead, though somewhat dimly. As it was, he became confused in the darkness, and, owing to a slight dizziness caused by his fall, instead of going toward Cardiff, he began walking back toward Tully.

He was a little sore and stiff at first, but, as he went on, this disappeared, and he stepped out briskly enough. He thought he would not have far to go before meeting his cousin, but, as he walked farther and farther, he commenced to wonder what had become of Adrian. But then, he rea.s.sured himself, perhaps Adrian had had some trouble in bringing the old white horse to a stop, though the animal had not seemed to be such a mettlesome steed.

"But I'll meet him soon, now," said Roger, trying to comfort himself.

He could feel the soft dusty road under his feet, and its whiteness was like a big indistinct chalk mark on a large blackboard, as it came faintly through the darkness. But, somehow or other, in a little while the white mark seemed to be fading away. It grew so dim that even by the hardest squinting of the eyes, it could no longer be seen. It appeared also that the character of the road was changing. It was no longer dusty and soft, but hard, and firm, and, instead of going down hill, Roger found himself ascending the grade.

"Hold on!" exclaimed the boy, "this is queer. I must have turned around."

He came to a sudden stop. Was he off the road? Was he lost? He hurriedly searched through his pockets and found a single match. Here was something that would aid him, though ever so slightly. With unsteady fingers he struck the little fire-stick. It flared up, sputtered and flickered, and, a second later, blazed brightly. Holding it above his head, so the glow might light all around him, he peered about in the gloom which was but faintly illuminated by the tiny flame.

What was his terror to see, on every side of him, a tall and thick undergrowth of bushes and lofty trees. Beneath his feet was a narrow path, while the forest appeared to meet above his head in a black arch.

Then, with a start, he realized he was lost; lost on the mountain, lost in the dense woods about Cardiff. He did not know which way to turn.

Now if Roger had been an older boy or a st.u.r.dy country lad, he would have laughed at the plight in which he found himself,--laughed a bit and then tramped on and sat down, to wait until morning. But, as it was, Roger was never more frightened in his life. Once he had been lost in New York, when he was a little chap. But a big policeman had picked him up and taken him to a precinct station-house, where he was kept until his father, missing him, came after the lost boy.

But out here in the country there were no blue-coated officers on the lookout for lost people. There were no police stations, no street lights, no lights at all, in fact, save the little flicker that had died away when Roger's single match went out.

When the last spark had become dim the boy's breath came with a gasp. He wanted to run away from the blackness, but where could he flee to escape it, for it was all about him. He felt like crying out; like shouting for help. Then he suddenly recalled something his father had once said to him.

"Roger, if you ever find yourself in danger, in a fire, or in any position where you feel you'll lose your presence of mind, just stop, and count ten. Then you'll be able to think calmly, and be able to help yourself, and perhaps others."

This came back to the boy like a flash. He resolved to put it into practice. Slowly he counted--1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. He said each number in a loud voice. Even hearing his own tones did him good, and, before he had reached the "nine" he felt himself growing calmer. At the end he was less frightened, and he could think more clearly. Then he began to reason, and before he knew it, he was turning a plan over in his mind.

"I must have branched off the road into a path that goes through the woods," he said, "and, at the same time, I must have got turned around, and gone up hill, instead of down. Now let's see. If I turn back and walk in just the opposite direction from which I'm facing now, and if I am careful to keep going down hill, and stay in this path until I strike the road again, I'll probably come out safely. So, then, right about face! Forward, march!" He executed the command and started off bravely in the other direction.

Roger now went along more slowly. He was cautious about where he set his feet, that he might not stray from the path, and occasionally he stooped down, and with his hands he felt the dirt under foot, to be positive he was on the hard, packed path and not travelling over the wood-carpet. He was in better spirits now and was sure he was going back the right way.

He even began to whistle a little tune and already saw himself safe in his uncle's house, laughing with Adrian over their adventure.

But when he had gone on for some time in this way, there came over him a nameless sense of disquietude. After all, was he really retracing his steps, or was he advancing deeper into the woods? If he had a match or two he could have easily seen his position. But he had not one. However, he reflected, the nature of the ground he was travelling over might now be of a.s.sistance to him. He leaned over again to feel of the way. As he did so he brushed against some low-hanging branches of the trees, and then, when his hand came in contact with the earth, Roger was startled to find it met neither the hard packed clay of the path, nor the dust of the road, but the dead leaves, the little twigs and broken limbs of trees, and the soft moss of the forest.

Now, indeed, he knew he was fairly lost, and, when he stopped, and listened intently, he heard, all around him, the rustle of the foliage, the creaking of the boughs and the rattle of the branches of the deep woods. He had now absolutely no sense of direction, no knowledge of which way to turn. He caught his breath with a gasp, and then, feeling his legs giving way beneath him, he put out his hands, which came sharply up against a tree trunk, as he sank down on a fallen log.

For a few minutes Roger thought the fierce beating of his heart would smother him. Then, realizing he must play the man now, he shut his lips firmly, clenched his hands, and stared determinedly into the blackness that was all around him.

"What a baby I am," he said. "All I have to do is to sit here until it's light. Then I can easily get back into the path, or some one will find me. That's what I'll do. I'll not move from this spot until I can see where I am going."

So he made himself as comfortable as possible on the log, turned up his coat collar, for it was cold, braced his back against the tree, and made ready to sit out his vigil until morning. His first fear over, he now looked upon the occurrence as a sort of queer little adventure.

"It will be something to write to mother about," he said, as he pulled his hat on tightly.

For perhaps half an hour the boy sat there. He thought of all sorts of things,--of his father, of his mother, and his little brother at home--of how he had come to Cardiff. He went over all that he and Adrian had done since he arrived.

Then he began to nod; a little at first, then more and more, until he caught himself falling forward, almost asleep.

"My, my! I mustn't go off like this," he said, rubbing his eyes. "It won't do to take a snooze here."