The
cart drubbed away and was lost. Then the heavy ticking of the clock
edged into his senses--tick, tock; tick, tock--cat found; cat found.
Then thought came.
Cat found!--then all was lost. Cat found!--then some damned prowling
idiot had chanced upon the hut.
This miserable George had felt certain that Professor Wyvern's
arguments would overcome his Mary's scruples. That little meeting with
his Mary had made him the more desperately anxious for success so that
he might win her and have her. And now--cat found!--all over. Cat
found! His pains for nothing!
Then came the support of a hope, and to this, hurrying back to the
station, speeding now in the train, most desperately he clung. The
Rose, he struggled to assure himself, had not been found at all. It
was impossible that anyone had been to the hut. Some idiot had found a
cat that answered to the Rose's description, and had telegraphed the
discovery to his uncle; or someone had brought a cat to his uncle and
his uncle was himself temporarily deluded.
Wildly praying that this might be so, George leaped from the train at
Paltley Hill; went rushing to the hut. Outside, for full ten minutes
he dared not push the door. What if he saw no Rose? What if all were
indeed lost?
He braced himself; pushed; entered.
At once he gave a whoop, and another whoop, and a third.
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