Limp and shivering, he drew his scanty covering tight about him.
In the silence that succeeded, he once more became aware of the
tireless chorus of the frogs, the hooting of the owls, and the
melancholy and oft-repeated call of the whippoorwill. But where
was his Uncle Bob? Why didn't he come to bed? And whose was
that cry for help he had heard? Memories of idle tales of men
foully dealt with in these lonely taverns, of murderous
landlords, and mysterious guests who were in league with them,
flashed through his mind.

Murrell had followed them for this--and had killed his Uncle Bob,
and he would be sent back to Bladen! The law had said that
Bladen could have him and that his Uncle Bob must give him up.
The law put men in prison--it hanged them sometimes--his Uncle
Bob had told him all about it--by the neck with ropes until they
were dead! Maybe they wouldn't send him back; maybe they would
do with him what they had already done with his Uncle Bob; he
wanted the open air, the earth under his feet, and the sky over
his head. The four walls stifled him. He was not afraid of the
night, be could run and hide in it--there were the woods and
fields where he would be safe.

He slid from the bed, and for a long moment stood cold and
shaking, his every sense on the alert. With infinite caution he
got into his trousers and again paused to listen, since he feared
his least movement might betray him. Reassured, he picked up his
battered hat from the floor and inch by inch crept across the
squeaking boards to the window. When the window was reached he
paused once more to listen, but the quiet that was everywhere
throughout the house gave him confidence. He straddled the low