compel him to wear a coat. Buffum examined the inner door and saw that
it had been forced by a tremendous exercise of muscular power. He
remembered the loss of the key, and knew that some one had assisted in
the operation.

"Where's that boy?" wheezed the keeper.

An attendant rushed to the room where the boy usually slept, and came
back with the report that the bed had not been occupied. Then there was
a search outside for tracks, but the rain had obliterated them all. The
keeper was in despair. He did not believe that Benedict could have
survived the storm of the night, and he did not doubt that the boy had
undertaken to hide his father somewhere.

"Go out, all of you, all round, and find 'em," hoarsely whispered Mr.
Buffum, "and bring 'em back, and say nothing about it."

The men, including several of the more reliable paupers, divided
themselves into little squads, and departed without breakfast, in order
to get back before the farmers should drive by on their way to church.
The orchards, the woods, the thickets--all possible covers--were
searched, and searched, of course, in vain. One by one the parties
returned to report that they could not find the slightest sign of the
fugitives.

Mr. Buffum, who had not a question that the little boy had planned and
executed the escape, assisted by the paroxysmal strength of his insane
father, felt that he was seriously compromised. The flight and undoubted
death of old Tilden were too fresh in the public mind to permit this new
reflection upon his faithfulness and efficiency as a public guardian to