Jerome, swift little runner that he was, ran that day as he had never
run before. The boys whom he met stood aside hastily, gaped down the
road behind him to see another runner laboring far in the rear, and
then, when none appeared, gaped after his flying heels.

"Wonder what he's a-runnin' that way fur?" said one boy.

"Ain't nobody a-tryin' to ketch up with him, fur's I can see," said
another.

"Mebbe his mother's took worse, an' he's a-runnin' fur the doctor,"
said a third, who was Henry Judd, a distant cousin of Jerome's.

The boys stood staring even when Jerome was quite out of sight.
Jerome had about three-quarters of a mile to run to Doctor Prescott's
house. He was almost there when he caught sight of a team coming.
"There's father, now," he thought, and stood still, breathing hard.
Although Jerome's scanty food made him a swift runner, it did not
make him a strong one.

The team came rattling slowly on. The old white horse which drew it
planted his great hoofs lumberingly in the tracks, nodding at every
step.

As it came nearer, Jerome, watching, gave a quick gasp. The wagon
contained wood nicely packed; the reins were wound carefully around
one of the stakes; and there was no driver. Jerome tried to call out,
tried to run forward, but he could not. He could only stand still,
watching, his boyish face deadly white, his eyes dilating. The old