. But at least the rain did not assail him as it had done. This,
however, was small comfort. He had lost, _failed_, and he knew it.

In pitiable despair, in the anguish of defeat, he looked about him again
in every direction, as if to beseech the angry night to give him back
his one little beacon, and let him only save those people if he died for
it.

But there was no light anywhere. It had gone out.

CHAPTER VIII

ALMOST

Well, he would not go back. They should find him right there, his body
marking the very last foot he had been able to go. He would die as those
brother scouts of his would have to die. He would not go back.

That good rule of the scouts to stop and think was not in Hervey's line.
But he would do the next best thing--a thing very characteristic of
Hervey Willetts. He would take a chance and start running. Yes, that
would be better. There would be just one chance in four of his going in
the right direction. But he had taken bigger chances than that before.
Anyway, the rain was ceasing. And he soon overcame the sentimental
notion of just lying there.

The momentary rest had restored some measure of his strength. The
aching in his side was not so acute. The land was not so muddy where he
was and he took off his jacket and washed some of the heavy mud from his
shoes.

Then he started off pell-mell. Who shall say what good angel prompted
him to look behind? Perhaps it was the little god Billikins of whom you
are to know more in these pages. But look behind Hervey Willetts did.
And there in the distance, very tiny but very clear, was a spark bobbing
in the darkness.

He paused and watched it over his shoulder. It moved along slowly, very
slowly. It disappeared. Then appeared again. And now it moved a little
faster. A little faster still. Now it moved along at an even, steady
rate. The long, hard pull up Cheery Hill was over, and the horses were
jogging along the road. Oh, how well Hervey knew that lantern which hung
under the rear step of the clumsy, lumbering old bus.

_Then it had not passed._

Hervey Willetts was himself now. Tearing a loose shred from his tattered
trousers, he soaked it in a little puddle, then stuffed it in his mouth.
He clasped his jack-knife in one fist and a twig in the other. He drew
up his belt. He took that precious hat off and stuffed it in his pocket,
campaign buttons and all. Ah, no, he did not throw it away. He ripped
off another rag and tied it fast arou