``Move up the river,'' was the reply.
``I knows jest the place where we wouldn't be found in a thousand years.''
``When d'yer want to start?'' asked Tom.
In ten minutes the abductors, with the stolen child, were slowly winding their way along the deserted beach.
It was now very dark. No stars were shining, and it had become bitterly cold. Suddenly voices were heard, and the abductors stopped to listen. They were in a ravine near the magazine landing, not more than fifty feet from the spot where the Lillian was launched.
Foley, Tom, and Hildey crouched low, and drew the little girl closer.
The steady dip of oars was heard up stream, and the voices grew plainer.
Out of the mingled sounds was heard, ``I agrees with Sandy, he's the dirtiest coward as ever went unhung.''
Lillian started, for she recognized the voice of the Jedge, who with Colonel Franklin, Sandy, Dink, Leander and Gilbert, were returning from a sail up the river Foley became frightened, and bending over, hissed into the child's ear:
``Remember what I tol' yer: if yer utter a sound, I'll kill yer.''
The sailing party meantime had reached the landing and stepped ashore. Sandy and the other three boys lowered the sail, rolled and carried it into the boat-house.
The whole party then, marching three abreast, with steady step, went up the graveled walk of the old magazine road, singing in unison:
``Hep--Hep--Shoot that ni**er if he don't keep step. Hep--Hep--Shoot that ni**er if he don't keep step.''
While its cadence was continued by Colonel Franklin and the Jedge, the four boys, in marching rhythm, sang out cheerily into the crisp cold night:
``When other lips and other hearts, Their tales of love shall tell, In accents whose excess imparts The power they feel so well.
There may, perhaps, in such a scene, Some recollection be, Of days that have as happy been, And you'll remember me.''
The three scoundrels listened, as the voices rose and fell on the air. The child, with the fear of death before her, and in the clutches of her horrible captor, gave one convulsive sob and sank swooning at his feet.
Foley picked her up and, walking quickly, placed her in the very boat her father and friends had left but a moment before. He wrapped her in a ragged coat, loosened the hasp of the door on the boat-house, and took out the oars.
Quickly the captors pushed the craft into deep water, and with muffled stroke moved through the inky waves, a somber specter sneaking along the banks of the sleeping marches.
When they neared the upper bridge, Foley ran the boat ashore and abandoned it. Picking up the exhausted and benumbed child, he led his two companions along the causeway and over the road leading to the bridge.
The wind came out of the north, howling through the leafless boughs of the mighty monarchs of the forest. The last flickering light of the town was left far behind, and darkness, like a great shroud, enveloped river, valley and woods.
In due time Colonel Franklin and his party reached home, hungry after their fine sail on the river, and all in high spirits.
``Jedge, you and the boys sit right down, and we'll have supper in a jiffy.''
The guests thoroughly enjoyed the evening meal. The repast was about concluded when Edith, who had just returned from the parsonage, came in, and called cheerily:
``Hurry up, Lily, it's time to go to the festival. They're going to light up thet tree at half-past eight, and it's nearly that now.''
``Why, chil', Lily ain't here. She's wif yo' folks,'' exclaimed Delia.
``With us? She hasn't been with us at all,'' responded Edith.
``It's likely she's at one of the neighbors,'' ventured the Colonel.
``I'll fin' her, Muster Franklin, an' I'se gwine to scol' her good an' hard fo' worryin' her ol' mammy. At this she put a shawl over her head and shoulderst and started in search of the absent one ``Suppose I go too,'' suggested Gilbert, rising.
``I don't think that's necessary,'' interposed the Colonel.
``It'll only take me a minute,'' assured the son, as he began to put on his overcoat.
``Go if you like then,'' consented the Colonel.
``An' if yer don't mind, Miss Deed,'' volunteered Sandy, ``I'll go up to church with yer, an' then come back an' fetch Lily and Gil.''
``That's a good idea,'' answered Edith, ``bring her right over to the church, and I'll be waiting for you there.''
``I guess I'll go up to my house an' look. Mebbe Lily is playin' with Zorah, an' if she is, I'll come right back an' tell yer,'' put in Dink.
Edith, Delia and the three boys departed, leaving the Colonel and the Jedge alone, smoking their pipes and discussing the sensational events of the week, in which Dennis Foley was the central figure.
The conversation was stopped by the appearance of Delia and Gilbert, who declared that not one of the neighbors had seen Lillian that afternoon.
``It seems almost incredible that she could be lost,'' said the father, ``she must be somewhere about here. Perhaps she went to the church, and fell asleep in one of the pews.''
The searching party set out once more, this time accompanied by the Colonel himself, and by the Jedge. At the church they heard from Sandy and Dink that no trace of the child had been found, so the father requested the minister to inquire of the congregation if the missing one had been seen anywhere. There was no response from those present, and the family and friends began to show grave concern.
Another effort at finding her was immediately made. The police sergeant was notified, and he sent out a general alarm.
All night long, and all the next day the hunt was continued. Wells were explored, basements, cellars and out-of-the-way places were ransacked, lumber yards and coal yards were gone through most carefully.
In fact, not a foot of the town was left unsearched, but all to no avail, and the once happy home of the Franklins was steeped in sorrow and despair.
