In the earth, which was still soggy, were a number of footprints.
"By the bones of Polycarp!" exclaimed the Professor, "those
hoboes have stolen the van. I guess they think it'll make a
fine Pullman sleeper for them. If I'd realized there was more
than one of them I'd have hung around closer. They need a lesson."
Good Lord! I thought, here's Don Quixote about to wade into
another fight.
"Hadn't we better go back and get Mr. Pratt?" I asked.
This was obviously the wrong thing to say. It put the fiery
little man all the more on his mettle. His beard bristled.
"Nothing of the sort!" he said. "Those fellows are cowards
and vagabonds anyway. They can't be far off; you haven't been
away more than an hour, have you? If they've done anything to
Bock, by the bones of Chaucer, I'll harry them. I _thought_ I
heard him bark."
He hurried up the lane, and I followed in a panicky frame of
mind. The track wound along a hillside, between a high bank
and a forest of birch trees. I think the distance can't have
been more than a quarter of a mile. Anyway, in a very few
minutes the road made a sharp twist to the right and we found
ourselves looking down into the quarry, over a sheer rocky
drop of a hundred feet at least.
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