THE WHITE WOLF by Franklin Gregory Page B

as the State Highway. But since Trent’s land on the other side was enclosed by a dose-barred iron fence, they didn’t figure it necessary to go farther.
     
    From the county road, night motorists could see in all directions lanterns and flashlights bobbing. And in the back lanes automobiles, loaded with men staring ahead and with spotlights swinging slowly in arcs, rolled in low gear.
     
    The news reached the Well, where Klonsterman and Adolf Mandel were locked in a beery debate. Mandel left to join the search, and a few minutes later Klonsterman staggered out and was next seen weaving his uncertain way toward the Tilson farm.
     
    But Leroy was not found that night.
     
    It was ten o’clock the next morning when Tip Farney, who worked for the Watermans across from Fountain Head, left the neat, white stone Waterman house and tramped across the east pasture. He had a cross saw with him and he figured on looking over some fallen trees. He came to the woods along Bowling Creek south of the Tilson land and he followed the stream down to its confluence with the Neshaminy in the southeast parcel of the Waterman farm.
     
    There, by the light of day, lay the mangled blood-coated body of a little child.
     
     
    STATE troopers came. Reporters and photographers followed. The State Troopers gathered at the spot.
     
    “My God!” one exclaimed. “Look at that flesh!”
     
    Another trooper gasped. And a third, eyes studying the ground said: .
     
    “God! See them tracks? Looks like the kid was dragged here!”
     
    “Dog tracks, they look,” said the first trooper.
     
    “That’s Bryn,” Farney said with conviction.
     
    “Bryn? Who's Bryn?” one of the troopers demanded.
     
    “Adolf Mandel’s police clog,” Farney muttered with growing anger. ‘ Lives up next to the Tilsons; dog’s a bad'n.”
     
    They found a trail of broken twigs and brushed leaves leading uncertainly from the edge of the Tilson yard a mile and a half south to the confluence of the two streams. Hank Tilson looked on in stupor.
     
    “But why—” he croaked. “Why didn’t we see that last night?”
     
    “Be hard,” a trooper said, “at night even with a lantern. And maybe you weren't looking for—this.”
     
    “No, no,” sobbed Hank. “My God, not this!”
     
    The trooper added, “And some of the men tramped over it. You can see where they obliterated the trail. Now—see there. Here the tracks come out again and that’s where the kid's body was dragged, breaking those twigs.”
     
    And then, after Hank Tilson went home to break as best as he could the tragic news to Mamie, the coroner arrived from Doylestown.
     
    “Good Lordl” he cried. “Looks like the kid's been eaten. See those teeth marks. What’s been going on ’round here?”
     
    Slowly, the troopers absorbed the story: David’s prize Angora goat, Pierre's duck, Nellie’s alarm.
     
    A trooper who specialized in such things made plaster casts of the animal's prints. They measured the distance between each imprint of each pad.
     
    “Got a long stride for a dog,” the trooper said.
     
    “Bryn's a big dog,” Farney said viciously.
     
    “Were there any prints like this where this girl saw this thing?”
     
    “Some of the men went down,” Farney replied. “They said they found prints. I dunno. I wasn't there.”
     
    “We’ll match ’em,” the trooper said with decision. “How about those others?”
    “You’ll have to ask Dave Trent an’ ol’ d’Wigney.”
     
    There was evidence, from the confusion of prints, that the animal had remained for some time at the confluence of the streams. Then the trail led up the Neshaminy on the north bank. Here the prints in the soft earth were not so deep.
     
    “Wasn’t carrying the kid’s weight any more,” a trooper said.
     
    The trail led for perhaps a hundred yards until, in the ooze of the creek’s bank, it disappeared.
     
    “Smart dog,” a trooper observed.
     
    “The tracks'll be on the other