"Fire--fire!"
The cry that had rung out so startlingly was repeated many times. Andy
could trace a growing commotion. His burrow in the haystack faced away
from the buildings of the Jones farm, but in a minute or two a great
glare was visible even through his hay shield.
Andy did not dare to venture out from his hiding-place. From increasing
shouts and an uproar, he could understand that the Jones household, and
then the families of neighbors were thronging to the fire. Some of these
latter, making a short cut from the road, passed directly by the
haystack in which he was hiding.
"It's the barn," spoke a voice.
"That's what it is, and blazing for good," was responded excitedly, and
the breathless runners hurried on.
Andy made up his mind that he would have to stay where he was for some
time to come, if he expected to avoid capture. Very soon people from the
village came trooping to the scene. He could trace the shouts of the
bucket brigade. He heard one or two automobiles come down the road. The
glare grew brighter and the crowd bigger. Soon, however, the
stubble-field began to get shadowed again, he noticed.
It must have taken the barn an hour to burn up. People began to repass
the haystacks on their return trips. Andy caught many fragments of
conversation. He heard a man remark:
"They managed to save the livestock."
"Yes," was responded; "but Jones says a couple of thousand dollars won't
cover his loss."
"What caused it, anyhow?"
"It was a mystery to Jones, he says, until Talbot came along. They
seemed to fix up a theory betwixt them."
"What was that?"
"Why, Jones was sort of hot and bitter about some boys who have bothered
him a lot of late. He walloped one or two of them. Young Gus Talbot was
among them. Jones was hinting around about the fire being set for
revenge, when Talbot spoke up and reminded him that he had headed off
that runaway apprentice of Talbot's this morning."
"Oh, the boy they're looking for--Andy?"
"Yes, Andy Nelson. He's the one that set the fire, Talbot declares, and
Jones believes it, and they're going to start a big hunt for him. Talbot
says he's beat him out of some money, and Jones says he's just hung
around before leaving for good to get even with him for stopping him
from getting away from Talbot." And, so speaking, the men passed on.
"Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish!" ruminated Andy. "What next, I
wonder?"
The refugee felt pretty serious as he realized the awkward and even
perilous situation he was in. As he recalled the fact that Gus and Dale
Billings had crossed over the field an hour before the fire broke out,
he was pretty clear in his own mind as to the identity of the firebugs.
"It's no use of thinking about seeing Mr. Dawson now," decided Andy.
"It's too late in the evening, and too many people will be looking for
me. There's so much piling up against me, that maybe Mr. Dawson wouldn't
believe a word I say. No, it's a plain case. They haven't any use for me
in Princeville, and the sooner I get out of the town and stay out of it,
the better for me."
Andy's foot was in no condition for a long tramp. He realized this as he
stretched it out and tested his weight upon it. He was not seriously
crippled, but he was in no shape to run a race or kick a football.
"It's going to be no easy trick getting safely away from Princeville and
out of the district," the boy told himself. "I'll wait until about
midnight, then I'll make for the river. There's boats going and coming
as far as the lake, and I may get a lift as far as the city. I can lose
myself there, or branch out for new territory."
Everything was still, and not a sign of life visible anywhere on the
landscape, when Andy at length ventured to leave his hiding-place. There
was a smell of burned wood in the air, and some smoke showed at the spot
where the barn had stood, but the town and the farmer's household seemed
to have gone to bed.
No one appeared to see or follow him while crossing the stubble field,
but Andy felt a good deal easier in mind as he gained the cover of the
brush.
The boy was entirely at home here--along the river as well. He had found
little time for recreation while working for Talbot, but whenever a
spare hour had come along he had made for the woods and the creek as a
natural playground. Now he went from thicket to thicket with a sense of
freedom. He knew a score of good hiding-places, if he should be suddenly
surprised.
Andy looked up and down the creek when he reached it. He hoped to locate
some barge ready to go down the river with some piles of tan bark, or a
freight boat returning from the summer camps along the lake. Nothing was
moving on the stream, however, and no water craft in view.
"I'll get below the bridge. Then I'll be safe to wait until daylight.
Something is bound to come along by that time," he reflected.
Andy reached and passed the bridge about a mile below Princeville. There
was no other bridge for ten miles, and if he had to foot it on his
journey to the city, he would be out of the way of traversed roads. He
walked on for about half a mile and was selecting a sheltered spot to
rest in, directly on the stream, when, a few yards distant, he noticed a
light scow near shore.
Andy proceeded towards this. It resembled many craft of its class used
by farmers to carry grain and livestock to market. Andy noticed that it
was unloaded and poles stowed amidships. He stepped aboard. No one was
in charge of it.
"I might find some of the abandoned old skiffs or rafts the boys play
with, if I search pretty hard," soliloquized Andy, stepping ashore
again.
"Hey!"
Andy was startled. Tracing the source of the short, quick hail, he
discovered a man seated on a boulder near a big hazel bush. Andy was
startled a little, and slowly approached his challenger.
The man who had spoken to him sat like a statue. He was a pale-faced
individual, with very large bright eyes, and his face was covered with a
heavy black beard. A cape that almost covered him hung from his
shoulders, completely hiding his hands. He looked Andy over keenly.
"Did you call me, mister?" inquired Andy.
"Yes, I did," responded the man. "I was wondering what you were doing,
lurking around here at this unearthly hour of the night."
Andy mentally decided that it was quite as much a puzzle to him what the
stranger was doing, sitting muffled up at two o'clock in the morning in
this lonely place.
"I was looking for a boat to take me down stream," explained Andy.
"Are you willing to work for a lift?" inquired the man.
"I should say so," replied Andy emphatically.
"Do you know how to manage a craft like this one here?"
"Oh, that's no trick at all," said Andy. "The river is clear, and
there's nothing to run into, and all you have to do is to pole along in
midstream."
"Where do you want to get to?"
"The city."
"I'm not going that far. I'll tell you what I'll do, though," said the
stranger--"you pole me down to Swan Cove----"
"That's about fifteen miles."
"Yes. You take me that far, and I'll make it worth your while."
"It's a bargain, and I'm delighted!" exclaimed Andy with spirit.
"All right," said the man; "get to work."
He never got up from his seat while Andy cast free the shore hawser.
When everything was ready he stepped aboard rather clumsily. Andy
thought it very strange that the man never offered to help him the least
bit. His passenger seated himself in the stern of the barge, the cloak
still closely enveloping his form, his hands never coming into sight.
It was welcome work for Andy, propelling the boat. It took his mind off
his troubles, and every push of the pole and the current took him away
from the people who had injured his good reputation and were bent on
robbing him of his liberty.
The grim, silent man at the stern of the craft was a puzzle to Andy. He
never spoke nor stirred. Our hero wondered why he kept so closely
covered up and in what line of transportation he used the barge.
They had proceeded about two miles with smooth sailing when there was a
sudden bump. The boat had struck a snag.
"Gracious!" ejaculated Andy, sent sprawling flat on the deck.
The contact had lifted the stranger from his seat. He was knocked to one
side. Andy, scrambling to his feet, was tremendously startled as his
glance swept his passenger.
The man struggled to his feet with clumsiness. He was hasty, almost
suspicious in his movements. The cloak had flown wide open, and now he
was swaying his arms around in a strange way, trying to cover them up.
"Why!" said the youth to himself, with a sharp gasp, "the man is
handcuffed!"