"Want mamma," he said. "I'se hungry."
One of the men picked him up--the gingham dress was saturated.
"You're hungry?" asked the man, his voice choking.
"Yes. An' I'se so wet. It wained and wained." Then the child began to sob.
"It was dark," he whispered, "an' cold. I want my mamma."
It was an hour's tedious journey back to Dent's by the shortest route. At
the top of the hill those near the cottage saw the boy in the arms of the
man who had found him. They shouted and the mother sprang out of the house
and came running, stumbling down the path to the gate. She caught at the
gate-post and stood there, laughing, screaming, sobbing.
"Baby! Baby!" she called.
The little boy turned his head and stretched out his thin, blood-stained
arms. She ran toward him and snatched him from the young farmer.
"Hungry, mamma," he sobbed, hiding his face on her shoulder.
* * * * *
Howard wrote his story on the train, going down to New York. It was a
straightforward chronicle of just what he had seen and heard. He began at
the beginning--the little mountain home, the family of three, the
disappearance of the child. He described the perils of the mountains, the
storm, the search, the wait, the listening mother, scene by scene, ending
with mother and child together again and the dog racing around them, with
wagging tail and hanging tongue.
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