“Lantern’s there all right,” he shouted, as they neared the bank above the danger spot.  He was a few yards in advance of Jack’s father and “Old Mack.”  Then suddenly he stood stock still, gave vent to a long, explosive whistle, and yelled, “Well, I’ll be gin-busted!  Look a’ there, boys!” And following his astounded gaze, they saw, on the brink of the river, an old grey horse, with down-hanging head, his back to the gale, and about his neck a boy’s coat, from the knotted sleeves of which was suspended a lighted lantern.

Tom Moran was at the animal’s side instantly.  “His mother was right,” he cried.  “Something has happened to Jacky.”  And he began searching about wildly.

“Now look here, Tom,” said the big foreman, “keep your boots on, and take this thing easy.  If that horse knows enough to stand there a-waiting for the boy, he knows enough to help us find him.  We’ll just pretend to lead him home, and see what he’ll do.”  And relieving the horse of the lantern, he tied the little coat closer about the long throat, and, using it as a halter, induced the grey to follow him.  Down the bank from the danger spot they went, round the bend to the footpath, along the trail for fifty yards.  Then the horse stopped.  “Come on here!  Get up!” urged the big foreman, as he strained at the coat sleeve.  But the horse stood perfectly still, and refused to be coaxed further.  “I’ll bet Jack o’ Lantern is around here somewhere.  Jack o’—­oh, Jack o’!” he shouted, for Tom Moran’s throat was choked.  He could not call the boy’s name.

“Jack o’ Lantern—­where are you?” reiterated Alick Duncan.  But there was no reply.

Meanwhile “Old Mack” had been snooping around the hollows at one side of the trail, and Jacky’s father was peering about the ledges opposite.  Presently he stopped, leaned over, and with love-sharpened eyesight, saw a little, dark heap far below lying in the snow.  “There’s something here, boys,” he called brokenly.

Alick Duncan sprang to the ledge, looked over, made a strange sound with his throat, and with an icy fear in his great heart, that never had known fear before, he laid his big hand on Tom Moran’s shoulder and said, “Stay here, Tom.  I’ll go.  It will be better for me to go.”  And slipping over the ledge, he dropped down beside the unconscious boy.  In another minute he was rubbing the cold hands, rousing the dormant senses.  Presently Jacky spoke, and with a shout of delight the big foreman lifted the boy in his huge arms, and, struggling up the uneven ledge, he shouted, “He’s all O.K., Tom—­just kind of laid out, but still in the fight.”

With the familiar voice in his ears, Jacky’s senses returned, for, lifting his head, he cried, “Oh, Mr. Duncan, did Grey-Boy take the lantern to the danger-spot?”

“Bet your boots he did, son,” said Tom Moran, stretching down his arms to help the big foreman lift his burden.  “We found him standing still and firm as a flag pole, with that light hoisted under his chin.”