It was a glorious morning. The sun was not up yet, so the air was
cool—even crisp; and Phœbe, making her way quietly through the rear gate
and along that road used by the tradesmen, had to slip on her coat. She
halted a moment under some trees that stood, occupying a whole lot,
between the Blair house and the railroad station. And as she settled her
coat, the birds called down at her. They were just awaking!
Phœbe had no thought of taking a train for New York. In the first place,
she had no money, having spent her last penny at the theatre; in the
second place, the station-agent knew her, and would report her
departure. She did not even go near the station. What she did was to
take her direction from it down the long macadam road that led, straight
and smooth, beside the double line of rails.
That way lay New York! She would walk till an automobile came by. Then
she would ride as far as possible, perhaps walk some more, sleep at
pleasant farm-houses along the route, take up her journey the following
morning, and thus, by easy stages, reach the loved city and Sally.
The whole plan seemed so feasible that as she turned into the road at a
point well south of the station, she wondered why she had never thought
of it before. And it was so jolly, trotting along like this! She felt
free, and strong, and happy. And very brave.
“Mother would want me to leave there,” she told herself. “She never
liked any of them.”
The sun came up. The birds began their morning songs. Phœbe took off her
coat, then her hat. When she spied an automobile rushing toward her from
the distance, she went aside to crouch in the deep, weed-grown ditch
that stretched between the wagon road and the track, covered her face
with her coat, stayed motionless for a few minutes—then went merrily on.
It was the first eluding of a car bound town-ward that made her think
how exciting this adventure of hers was. And with that thought came
another—a wonderful one! It made her heart beat fast. She fairly
skipped. Tears of joy sprang to her eyes. She _would_ be a
moving-picture actress! And act with William S. Hart!
Why had she never thought of leaving before—to carry out the plan?
She was so happy over her determination that she all but allowed herself
to be seen by an automobile that, with milk-cans rocking and clanking,
shot past on its way out of town. She was not ready yet to ask for a
ride. That would come later, when a village to the south was at her
back, and the chances of her being recognized had lessened. Just now,
with her new idea in mind, she felt so happy and light-footed that she
needed no rides. She knew she could go on walking all day!
But there was something she had forgotten: breakfast. Very soon she
remembered it—at about the time she was accustomed to having it. And as
she trotted along she thought of her cereal and cream, her three-minute
egg, and the little stack of crisp, hot buttered toast that Sophie
always brought with the egg.
Phœbe looked on either hand for houses. She had passed quite a few, but
they were set so far back from the highway that she had not feared being
seen from them. But if she was to have even a bite of breakfast, would
it not be necessary to go boldly up to one, and ring the bell, and ask
for food?
“No,” said Phœbe, aloud. “They’d telephone straight into town. I’ll just
have to stand it till I get farther.”
Her trot changed to a trudge. The summer sun climbed the sky, and the
coolness went out of the air. She grew thirsty, and forgot her hunger in
her desire for water. What made things harder was the fact that
automobiles or wagons were frequent now, and she had to be on the
lookout constantly, and was constantly compelled to forsake the road for
the deep ditch while travellers went by.
Then there were the trains—both freight and passenger. She hid from
them. From the north they might carry people who would know that she was
missing; from the south they would take news of a lone little girl
walking toward New York.
Toward noon she went aside into a clump of trees to rest. Here she found
water—a shallow, unshaded pool of it. But it was not the kind she had
always been accustomed to, cold and limpid and clean; it was warm, and a
thin scum floated upon its surface. Also, there were long-legged,
nervous insects going about upon it jerkily. She had to drive them away
before she could drink.
Once she had left the New York road, somehow she did not want to return
to it. She was afraid of discovery. As noon came and passed, there were
more automobiles and wagons to elude, and even more trains. Once she saw
a man on foot, with a dog at his heels. She remembered a moving-picture
she had once seen in which dogs had been used to find a murderer. She
wondered if the man and the dog would not soon be hunting for her!
At that she started off once more, going parallel to track and road, but
keeping well out of sight from both. This meant hard work, for there was
cultivated land to cross, there were fences to climb, and whenever a
house loomed up ahead, it was necessary for Phœbe to make what to her
was a heart-breaking detour.
By the middle of the afternoon she was exhausted. Ahead of her, in a
field, she saw a hay-stack. She was famished, and more thirsty than
ever. But her knees were failing her. Above all things she needed rest.
She crossed the field, sought the shady side of the stack, gathered
together a little loose hay with which to make a bed, and dropped upon
it, her hat screening her face.
She awoke with a start, knowing she was not alone, and with a cry of
fear scrambled to her feet. A man was beside her—a young man with a very
brown face, and dark eyes that twinkled. He had curly black hair, and
wore a black slouch hat.
“Hullo,” said the man, grinning.
“Goo-good-afternoon,” returned Phœbe, catching up her hat as she backed
away. She did not like the looks of the man. He made her think of
gypsies.
“What you doin’ out here?” went on the stranger. He looked her over
impudently.
Phœbe knew that she must give this man a satisfactory answer. And she
felt, she scarcely knew why, that she must not let him think she was
alone. “My father has just gone over to that house,” she answered,
trying to keep her voice even. “I’m very hungry, and my father has gone
to get me something to eat.”
“Is that so!” The man considered her explanation, and even turned about
to look toward the house she had indicated. “Well, how does it happen
your father and you are hangin’ around this hay-field?” he persisted.
“Well,”—Phœbe saw that she had partly convinced him—“my father’s
automobile broke down, over there on the road. But I had to have
something to eat before he fixed it, so he’s going to ask for food over
there, and for gasoline.”
“Say!” resumed the young man, dropping his voice confidentially; “you
stay here, and I’ll go over and meet your father, and help him carry the
things—eh?”
“All right,” agreed Phœbe, heartily. (Anything to get rid of the
stranger!) “And tell my father please to bring plenty of water.” (This
was a master stroke!)
“I’ll bring it. Now, you set down, and I’ll be back with water and grub
in no time.” He gave her a final look, then started off quickly.
It was plain that he only half believed her. He was going to learn for
himself whether or not her father was at the farm-house. He was counting
on her hunger and thirst to hold her there in the strip of shade while
he was gone. Her instinct told her that.
It told her more. She knew she must get away. But not at once. The shady
side of the stack did not face toward the farm-house. Soon the man,
reaching the fence that skirted the yard, would be out of sight of Phœbe
were she to remain in the shade, for a corner of the hay would hide her.
She waited.
Presently, peering around that corner, she saw the man climb the fence.
As he stepped on the farther side, she stood boldly in sight. He looked
around toward her, and she swung her hat at him!
He waved back, and turned away.
Then she ran—straight in the opposite direction, and as hard as she
could go. Terror gave her strength, terror of she knew not what. She
forgot hunger and thirst and weariness: she thought only of putting
distance between herself and that man.
Her way led her back to the road. Even as she set foot upon it, an
automobile turned into it from a side lane that ran at right angles to
road and track. The machine was a small, open car, driven by an elderly
man. Phœbe went to the middle of the road and held up her hand.
“He isn’t from town,” she argued. “Nobody’s told him about me.”
The elderly man stopped. “Want a ride?” he called down cheerily.
“Would you mind?” inquired Phœbe. “You see I want to go to town, because
my aunt, who’s camping over here,”—she waved a hand in the direction of
the hay-stack—“feels sort of sick, and wants some medicine.”
“Climb in,” was the hearty invitation.
Phœbe climbed. Then, calling upon her imagination, and aided by
moving-picture plots she could recall, she told the elderly man all
about herself and her aunt, and how they came to be camping out behind a
hay-stack in a farmer’s field. And so real was her story, and so genuine
seemed her concern for her aunt, that the elderly man was hugely
interested, and gave Phœbe some plums out of his coat pocket.
As they spun along, Phœbe fell to wondering what she would do when they
arrived in town. For she feared the man would take her directly to a
drug-store, and there she would have to confess that she had no money.
Of course she could say that, somehow, she had lost it. But suppose the
man not only bought the medicine she would have to ask for, but insisted
on carrying her back to a point on the road nearest that stack!
Worse! Suppose as they entered the little town that an officer of the
law hailed them, to ask if Phœbe was not the little girl who had run
away that morning! And suppose——
But to Phœbe’s intense relief none of the several possibilities she
feared came to pass. For the reason that the man, when he reached the
outskirts of the town, came to a stop and explained that he would have
to turn aside for a mile or so, and would not be able to take Phœbe all
the way into town.
“Just the same,” he added, “if you’ll be at this spot an hour from now,
I’ll pick you up as I start home.”
“Oh, thank you!” exclaimed Phœbe, grateful. But she was not thanking him
for his offer. Her gratitude was for the ride and for the almost
miraculous escape from being carried into town. She climbed down, waved
a good-bye, and watched the little open car whirl away in a cloud of
dust down a long dirt road that led under a small bridge.
That bridge gave her an idea. She had the plums, and she was too tired
to go farther until she had more rest and sleep. “I’ll hide,” she
determined, “and I’ll eat two of the plums, and then I’ll sleep. And
early tomorrow morning, I’ll go round this town before anybody’s up.”
At one end of the bridge, and under it, where the timbers met the earth,
there was a little scooped-out place, as if some one no larger than
Phœbe had been there before her and hollowed a resting place for her.
She crawled into it, lay on one side with her face toward the macadam
road, ate all of the plums, broke the pits by using two stones that were
at hand, ate the pits and liked them, then covered herself with her
coat, laid her head on her hat, and slept.
First, however, she said her prayers. She remembered that she had told
lies that afternoon. “I had to tell them,” she pleaded. None the less,
they were lies, and she dared not sleep with them on her conscience.
When she awoke, it was night, and she was cold. What awoke her was a
train, plunging past her overhead, with shrieks of its whistle, a roar
of wheels, and a clanking as of many chains.
She smiled to herself in the dark. What would the people on the train
say if they knew that beneath them, as they tore along, was a little
girl who was running away? “Some day, when I’m a famous actress,” she
promised herself, “I’ll write all about this to the newspapers. And then
the people in the train will remember, and be awfully interested.”
She was strangely unafraid. For one reason, she felt so secure. In the
first place, she must be many miles from home. They would not think of
searching for her at such a distance. If they did, who in the world
would ever dream (if he were to pass that bridge) that she was curled up
snugly under one end of it? “I couldn’t have found a better place,” she
declared, pleased with her own judgment. “Tomorrow night I’ll hunt
another bridge just like this.”
She tucked her coat more carefully about her, then composed herself for
more sleep. She heard little noises about her, as if a rabbit were out,
or a badger. She felt that rabbits and badgers would add a touch to her
story—that story she would write about herself when she was famous. She
began to word it now. The account merged into something her father was
saying. It was: “She hasn’t gone past here. I feel sure of that. Let’s
take our time——”