For a minute there was no answer, and Dave continued to call. Then came what was half call and half moan. With ears on the alert, the boy followed up the sounds and quickly came in sight of a man, wrapped up in a fur overcoat and crouched in a heap between two rocks at the base of the cliff. He held a pistol in his hand, but the weapon was empty.
For the instant man and boy faced each other--the former too weak to speak and the latter too agitated to do so. Dave's heart was beating like a trip-hammer and for the time being his surroundings were completely forgotten.
"Are you--are you----" he began. "Are you David Porter?" he blurted out.
"Yes," was the gasped-out reply. "Yo--you----"
"Eh? What's that?" asked the man, rising up slightly.
"You don't know me? But of course you don't--if you didn't get the letters and telegrams. I am your son, Dave Porter."
"My son? Wha--what do you mean? I--er--have no son. I had one, years and years ago, but----" Mr. Porter was too weak to go on. He sat staring at Dave in bewilderment.
"You lost him, I know. He was stolen from you. Well, I am that son. I have been looking for you for months. I found Uncle Dunston first, and then we sent letters and cablegrams to you, but no answer came back. Then I started out to hunt you up--and here I am." Dave was on his knees and holding his father's blood-stained hand in his own. "I see you are hurt; I'll----"
"My son? My son?" queried Mr. Porter, like one in a dream. "Can this be true?" He gazed unsteadily at Dave. Then he closed his eyes and went off into a dead faint. The youth was startled, for he saw that his parent might be dying. His hand was hurt and he had scratches on his ear, and one knee of his trousers was blood-stained.
"I must help him--he must not die!" thought Dave, and set to work with feverish haste, doing all that was possible under the circumstances. From his shirt he tore off the sleeves and used them as bandages. Then he rubbed his father's face with snow. Presently the man opened his eyes and stared again at Dave.
"Did yo--you say you were my--my son?" he asked, in a weak, incredulous voice.
"If you are David Breslow Porter, a twin brother to Dunston Porter."
"Then I am your son--the one who was stolen from you by the nurse, Polly Margot, and her worthless husband, Sandy."