voices in the distance. It was not yet very late, and he guessed that, if only out of curiosity, some of the neighbors would appear upon the scene.
“There’s somebody coming from the other direction.” He spoke quickly, jumped the ditch, and plunged in among the clump of underbrush just in time to avoid three running forms hurrying down the road.
“It’s the Bolger boys,” said Dave, peering forth from his covert.
“Hustle, fellows,” the oldest of the trio was urging.
“Yes, there’s some kind of a rumpus up at the Warner place,” added a second voice.
“Hope it’s a fire,” piped in a third, reckless voice. “That would make a regular celebration, after the airships.”
Dave, from what he overheard, judged that the Bolgers were on their way from the village when attracted by the commotion at the Warner farm. Others might soon appear, Dave mused, and struck out across a meadow. He knew that it would be risky to go into the village or nearer to it. In a very short time, thought Dave, his guardian would have the sheriff and his assistants looking for him.
The lad thought rapidly. He planned that if he could reach the switching yards of the railroad, he might get aboard some freight car and ride safely out of the district. He ran along a wide ditch which lined the Bolger farm, intending to leap it at a narrow part and cut thence across a patch of low land to the railroad tracks.
“O – oh!” suddenly ejaculated Dave, and fell flat, the breath nearly knocked out of his body.
He squirmed about, wincing with a severe pain in one ankle, and wondering what had tripped and still held him a prisoner.
“It’s a trap,” said Dave, as he got to a sitting position and investigated. “It’s a muskrat trap set by the Bolger boys, I guess.”
The blunt edges of the trap, which was secured by a chain to a stake driven into the ground, did not hurt him particularly. It was the severe wrench, the sudden stopping, that had caused the trouble. Dave pried the trap loose and got to his feet.
“Hello, this is serious,” he spoke, as he found that he could not progress without limping, and then, only very slowly.
Dave looked about him with some concern. The commotion in the direction of the Warner place was increasing. He fancied he heard the hoofs of a horse coming down the road.
“It won’t do to linger here,” he said. “They would be sure to find me. I don’t believe I can get to the railroad with this foot. I have certainly sprained my ankle.”
Dave had done nothing of the kind, but he did not know it at the moment. The moon was shining full and high. He looked about him for some hiding place.
He limped along the edge of the ditch, despairing of being able to cross it. Suddenly a suggestive idea came to him as he made out the home of his friend, Ned.
“If I can manage to get to the barn on the Towner place, I know where to hide safe enough,” he mused.
His foot hurt him dreadfully, but he kept on, got past the rails of the pasture enclosure, and came up to the barn at the end away from the house and the road. The loft door was open, and cleats ran up on the outside boards. Dave sunk down all in a heap in among the fresh sweet-smelling hay. The pain left him as soon as his weight was removed from his foot, but he was quite exhausted from the efforts he had made.
The boy rubbed his foot ruefully and listened to distant sounds floating on the night air. Finally he crept over to the corner of the barn fartherest away from the opening leading to the lower floor. There was no danger of any one coming to that spot. There was a broad crack in the boards there, and Dave could look out towards the road.
Dave caught sight of a horseman dashing along the highway in the direction of the village. Then he made out the three Bolger boys returning to their home. A little later two men appeared. One of them was leading a horse.
“It’s Mr. Warner and our nearest neighbor, and they’ve got old Dobbin with them,” said Dave.
He saw his guardian go to the front of the Towner home. A light appeared inside, and in a few minutes Mr. Towner came around the corner of the house with Mr. Warner. The horse was led up to the barn.
“I’m sorry Dave has run away, Mr. Warner,” Mr. Towner remarked.
“Oh, we’ll catch him,” replied Dave’s guardian. “A bad boy, sir, a very bad boy.”
“Why, I never thought that.”
“But he is. He broke into my desk, and has stolen money and other property of mine.”
The listening Dave fired up at this bold and false accusation. He was half minded to go down into the yard and face his accuser with the proof of the falsity of his charge.
“If you’ll just let me take any old rig to hitch up Dobbin to, it’ll be an accommodation,” went on Warner. “That runaway rascal maliciously smashed the wheel of my only wagon this evening.”
Mr. Towner pulled a light vehicle out of a shed, and Dobbin was hitched up. Silas Warner and his neighbor drove off, and Mr. Towner went back to bed.
Dave was worried and disturbed for a long time, even after things had quieted down. In his present crippled condition he did not dare venture outside. He was snug and safe for the time being at least, and finally he dropped off into a sound sleep.
The youth awoke to find the sun shining through the half-open hay door. He crept over to it as he fancied he heard some one moving about in the yard below. Dave was gratified to find his foot in much improved condition over the night previous. It was still a bit lame and stiff, but he could bear his weight upon it without flinching.
“Glad the ankle isn’t sprained or broken,” he told himself cheerfully. “I believe I could walk with it, and maybe try a run, if I had to.”
He was much refreshed by his sleep, but both hungry and thirsty. His face brightened up considerably as he heard some one clucking in the chicken yard, and glancing down recognized Ned Towner.
Dave did not know who might be in the stable below or in the vicinity. He leaned towards the loft door and gave a low but distinct whistle. It was one he and his chum used often in signalling one another.
“Hello!”
Ned Towner dropped the pan out of which he was throwing corn to the chickens. He looked about him in a startled way. Then he came out of the poultry yard, trying to locate the source of the call.
“It’s Dave,” the lurker in the hay loft heard him mutter. “No one else – Dave.”
“S – st!”
Dave had shown his face and waved his hand from the door aperture.
“Dave!” repeated Ned, in still further wonderment.
“Yes, it’s me,” responded Dave in a hurried, cautious tone of voice. “Anybody else about?”
“Not a soul.”
“All at breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“Come up here, will you?”
“You
