Are you journeyin' far?"

"Thank you," answered Tom. "No, we're not going far." They strode away,
leaving the inquisitive citizen of Manchester staring after them. "The old
fool!" Tom exclaimed. "He'd keep us there for an hour. I wonder where
Andrews is going?" He hazarded a glance over his shoulder. Andrews was
almost up to them.

"We'd better not speak to him until we're farther away from these houses,"
said Wilson.

"When we get down almost to the trees, I'll hail him."

They quickened their pace so that Andrews would come abreast of them near
the Widow Fry's. Several times Tom glanced back to see if Andrews was
watching them, but the leader's eyes seemed never to waver from the pommel
of his saddle. The village street narrowed down to a country road, and the
"plock-plock-plock" of the horse's hoofs on the mud sounded directly behind
them.

"This is all right," said Wilson. "Let's slow down." Then, as the horse
came up to them, Wilson said: "Andrews!"

"Follow me," Andrews answered. He touched his horse with his spurs. The
animal was too tired to do more than quicken its step, but it carried
Andrews ahead of them rapidly.

"He didn't seem surprised," said Wilson.

"He knew who we were when he saw us on the street, I think," answered Tom.