CHAPTER IX.
A STARTLING SURPRISE.
To add to the uncomfortableness of the situation, threatenings of rain began to appear about this time, but the crowd of spectators showed no signs of dispersing, one and all waiting with curious interest to see what the end would be.
In the midst of the lull in the scene the ’squire reappeared, holding in his hand now the warrant for the arrest of the newcomers under the charge of Ragged Rob, who stood by the side of Joe and her mother at this time.
“I reckon I have made it strong enough to hold ’em,” declared the justice, referring to the paper in his hand. “I hope Stanyan will get here before dark. Ah, it’s going to rain soon. I wish Stanyan were here now.”
The same wish may have been in the minds of others, and ’Squire Hardy was not the only one who consulted his watch and calculated that it would be fully an hour later before the officer could be expected.
At this juncture the sound of a wagon approaching was heard, and all turned expectantly up the road, to discover a double team coming toward the station at a smart rate of speed. The seat contained one man and two boys. Covered from head to foot with the flour that had blown over him, it was no wonder the driver was not recognized until he was near at hand.
“It’s Deacon Cornhill!” cried one of the bystanders. “But what in the world has he been doing with himself?”
The deacon did present a singular appearance, but he was unmindful of this, as he drove his team alongside the station platform, calling out, in his cheery voice:
“I hope you ain’t got tired o’ waiting, but I went as spry as I could. Here, boys, help throw the things in, and then we’ll give the sick ones a boost. Jim, jess hold my hosses.”
“Don’t know as I care about mixing up in sich an affair,” muttered the man addressed, quickly retreating to the rear of the crowd to escape a second invitation of the kind.
“I should like to know what you are up to?” demanded ’Squire Hardy, advancing, while he flourished the document in his hand so the other might see it. “I have sent for Mr. Stanyan to attend to these folks. I reckon he’ll be in time to look after them,” pulling out his watch and consulting it.
“We won’t bother Mr. Stanyan, and there was no need for you to send for him, ’Squire Hardy.”
“I ain’t so sure about that, deacon. At any rate I have sent for him, and before I shall let these critters go, I want to know what you are going to do with them.”
“So long as they are peaceful you have no business to meddle. Won’t some of you lend a hand here to get this poor cripple into the wagon?” appealing to the bystanders.
“I asked you a civil question and you haven’t answered it, deacon,” said ’Squire Hardy, stepping in front of the other.
No one had volunteered to lend their assistance in reply to his request to help him and Rob lift Mr. Little into the wagon, while the horses were becoming restive each moment, and there was no one at the bit. The rain was beginning to fall in big drops, and altogether it was no wonder Deacon Cornhill began to grow nervous and discouraged.
“Why not let them go, ’squire?” asked Mr. Johnson, who seemed to be an honest man. “It’s going to rain hard in a few minutes, and the deacon needs every moment if he would get under cover before it strikes.”
With these words the speaker took hold to help, and in a few minutes the entire party were seated in the wagon, though by that time the rain was falling fast.
Deacon Cornhill climbed up to the driver’s seat, taking the reins stoutly in his hands. It needed no urging on his part to start the animals, and with a series of yells and gibes ringing in his ears, the good man drove smartly away, glad to escape so easily.
’Squire Hardy stood silent, but his face was livid with rage as he saw the strange party leave the station. The crowd of spectators had now sought the cover of the building, and were exchanging comments with one another upon the singular conduct of the deacon.
“Let the old fool go in the rain,” declared the ’squire. “He ain’t heard the last of this, not by a long shot. I’ll set Stanyan after ’em, and if he can’t cook their goose I will, if it costs me all I’m worth. Deacon Cornhill needn’t think he is going to jeopardize the safety of the whole town by any such tomfoolery. I’ll give you a dollar, Joe Dollard, if you’ll foller ’em so as to tell where they go. If the deacon takes ’em home you will see lively times before morning.”
But Deacon Cornhill had no intention of taking his party home. He feared too much the sharp tongue of Mrs. Cornhill, whom he had already found was opposed to his scheme, to hazard such a venture. So he followed a road which led out of the village on the east, and drove ahead at a smart gallop through the rain, which was soon falling in a torrent. As there was no covering to the wagon, the entire party was exposed to the downpouring elements, though the two invalids had been so covered with a large rubber blanket in the wagon that they were partially sheltered from the rain.
The only ones who really enjoyed the ride were the three boys—Chick, Ruddy and Tony—though two others, known as Tom and Jerry, joined with them in the outbursts of merriment.
Rob, their leader, realized that the halo had fled from the picture, and that only the dark background was now revealed. He saw a bitter struggle ahead in order to meet the dangers likely to surround them in this new life. In this unexpected crisis his companions were not likely to prove of help, but he was the last boy to despair. His whole life had been a battle against adverse circumstances, and he was not going to falter now.
Thus he spoke encouragingly to his low-spirited companions, and looked hopefully forward to their destination, trying to form an idea of the looks of the place, little dreaming in his youthful enthusiasm of its actual desolation.
The road to Break o’ Day, as the place to which they were going was known, wound up through a deep wood for over four miles, and not a dwelling was to be seen on the entire route. Though they were somewhat protected from the rain under the overhanging forest, it was a dismal ride, and every one hailed with joy the opening at the summit of the hill or mountain.
The deacon spoke encouragingly to the weary horses, which started into a smart trot now that the way was comparatively level.
The Break o’ Day tract of country really consisted of a thousand acres of wild land, for the most, which had been largely cleared of its first growth by charcoal burners a few years before, and had been allowed to send up a second growth of saplings now in that age termed “sprouts.”
Of course, the strangers to this isolated spot paid little heed to their surroundings, as one and all tried to escape as much as possible the drenching rain, which was falling faster than ever, if that were possible. But Rob looked in vain for any sign of a house until they had gone half a mile, when he discovered a solitary frame house of two stories, and which had once been painted red on the outside. This paint was now worn off so that the broad sides of the building looked brown and dilapidated in the storm. There was not a whole window in the house and the door at the front side hung from one hinge.
But the gaze of the approaching observers was suddenly attracted by the sight of a couple of horsemen riding up in front of the building from the opposite direction.
Deacon Cornhill had seen the two men and, pulling up the horses he was driving, he said, in a low but husky tone:
“It’s Sheriff Stanyan and ’Squire Hardy. They’ve got here ahead of us.”