Three times he fell and when he arose he was plastered with mud from head
to feet. But he did not turn back, and every minute wasted only added to
his alarm, for Sam Barringford, rough though he was in outward appearance,
had a heart that at times could be as tender as that of a child.

"If the lad's dead I don't know how I'm a-goin' to break the news to his
folks," he groaned, with a long sigh. "Joseph and his wife allers looked to
me to keep an eye on him. They expect me to be keerful. 'Twasn't right at
all fer me to take Henry so close to sech a dangerous spot. I ought to be
licked fer it, an' licked hard, too."

It was a good half hour before he could get down to where the torrent
flowed over the rocks. He was now a quarter of a mile from where Henry had
taken the unexpected tumble, and working his way down the stream was no
easy task.

It had set in to rain harder than ever, and the black clouds soon shut out
what little was left of daylight. Wet to the skin, and shivering from the
cold, he moved on as well as he was able. Again he called Henry's name, but
only a dull echo came back, partly drowned by the rushing of the water.

When Barringford thought he had covered the proper distance he came to a
halt. On his back he carried Henry's rifle as well as his own, having
picked it up when leaving the top of the hill, but the owner of the firearm
was nowhere visible.

"I'll have to make a light, no two ways on thet," he mused, and moved close
up under the rocks to get some dry kindlings. But everything was thoroughly
wet around him and though he set fire to the tinder in his box he could
obtain nothing in the shape of a torch.