Mahaffy was hurried toward the road. His hat was knocked flat on
his head--he turned with an angry snarl, the very embodiment of
hate--but again he was thrust forward. And then, somehow, his
walk became a run and the crowd started after him with delighted
whoopings. Once more, and for the last time, he faced about,
giving the judge a hopeless, despairing glance. His tormentors
were snatching up sods and stones and he had no choice. He
turned, his long strides taking him swiftly over the ground, with
the air full of missiles at his back.

Before he had gone a hundred yards he abandoned the road and,
turning off across an unfenced field, ran toward the woods and
swampy bottom. Twenty men were in chase behind him. The
judge was the sheriff's prisoner--that official had settled that point
--but Mr. Mahaffy was common property, it was his cruel privilege
to furnish excitement; his keen rage was almost equal to the fear
that urged him on. Then the woods closed about him. His long
legs, working tirelessly, carried him over fallen logs and
through tai. tangeled thickets, the voices behind him growing
more and more distant as he ran.




CHAPTER XII

THE FAMILY ON THE RAFT