long, Mrs. Tucker,” said Philip. “I don’t intend to stay.”
“You don’t, hey?” retorted Joe Tucker, with a wolfish grin and an emphatic nod of the head. “We’ll see about that—won’t we, Squire Pope?”
“The boy is rather rebellious, Mrs. Tucker,” said the selectman. “He appears to think he knows better what is good for him than we do. You may look upon him as a permanent boarder. What he says is of no account.”
Philip said nothing, but he looked full at the squire with an unflinching gaze. If ever determination was written upon any face, it was on his.
“Come down there!” said Mrs. Tucker, addressing our hero. “You’re at home now.”
“Mr. Dunbar won’t know what has become of me,” said Philip, with a sudden thought. “They will be anxious. May I go back there and tell them where I am?”
“Do you think I am green enough for that?” Mr. Tucker, touching the side of his nose waggishly. “We shouldn’t be likely to set eyes on you again.”
“I will promise to come back here this evening,” said Philip.
“And will you promise to stay?” asked Squire Pope doubtfully.
“No, sir,” answered Philip boldly. “I won’t do that, but I will engage to come back. Then Mr. Tucker will have to look out for me, for I tell you and him frankly I don’t mean to stay.”
“Did you ever hear such talk, squire!” asked Mr. Tucker, with a gasp of incredulity. “He actually defies you, who are a selectman and an overseer of the poor.”
“So he does, Mr. Tucker. I’m shocked at his conduct.”
“Shall we let him go?”
“No, of course not.”
“I agree with you, squire. I know’d you wouldn’t agree to it. What shall I do about his wantin’ to run away?”
“It will be best to confine him just at first, Mr. Tucker.”
“I’ll shut him up in one of the attic rooms,” said Mr. Tucker.
“I think it will be the best thing to do, Mr. Tucker.”
Philip took all this very coolly. As to the way in which they proposed to dispose of him for the present he cared very little, as he did not intend stay till morning if there was any possible chance of getting away. The only thing that troubled him was the doubt and anxiety of his good friends, the Dunbars, when he did not return to the house.
“Squire Pope,” he said, turning to that official, “will you do me a favor?”
“Ahem! Explain yourself,” said the squire suspiciously.
“Will you call at Mr. Dunbar’s and tell them where I am.”
Now, for obvious reasons, the squire did not like to do this. He knew that the Dunbars would manifest great indignation at the arbitrary step which he had adopted, and he did not like to face their displeasure, especially as his apology would perforce be a lame one.
“I don’t think I am called upon to do you a favor, seeing how you’ve acted, Philip,” he said hesitatingly. “Besides, it would be out of my way, and I ought to get home as soon as possible.”
“Then you refuse, sir?”
“Well, I’d rather not.”
“Will you get word to them, Mr. Tucker?” asked Philip, turning to him.
“I hain’t got time,” answered Mr. Tucker, who feared that the Dunbars would come for Philip and release him in the course of the evening.
Philip was nonplused. Always considerate of the feelings of others, he was unwilling that his friends should suffer anxiety on his account.
As Mr. Tucker and Squire Pope walked away together, our hero turned to Zeke.
“I suppose it’s no use to ask you to do me a favor, Zeke?” he said.
“Do you want me to tell Frank Dunbar where you are?”
“Yes, I wish you would.”
“Then I’ll do it.”
“You’re a better fellow than I thought you were, Zeke,” said Philip, surprised.
“No, I ain’t! Do you want to know why I’m willin’ to go?”
“Why?”
“I know Frank Dunbar’ll feel bad, and I hate him.”
“So that is your object, is it, Zeke?”
“You’ve got it.”
“Well, whatever your motive may be, I shall be much obliged to you if you go. Here’s ten cents for you!”
Zeke grasped at the coin with avidity, for his father was very parsimonious, and his mother no less so, and he seldom got any ready money.
“Thank you!” said Zeke, with unusual politeness. “I’ll go right off. But, I say, don’t you tell dad where I’ve gone, or he might prevent me, and don’t you let on you’ve given me this dime, or he’d try to get it away.”
“No, I won’t say anything about it,” answered Philip.
“A curious family this is!” he thought, “There doesn’t seem to be much confidence in each other.”
Zeke sauntered away carelessly, to avert suspicion but when he had got round a bend of the road he increased his speed, never looking back, lest he should see his father signaling for him.
Philip breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’ve got a messenger at last,” he said. “Now my friends will know what has become of me when I don’t come home to supper.”
He was a little curious to learn what they were going to do with him, but he was not long kept in suspense.
CHAPTER X. BAD TIDINGS
Leaving Philip for a short time in the hands of his captor, we will follow Zeke on his errand. He didn’t have to go as far as Mr. Dunbar’s house, for he met Frank Dunbar about a quarter of a mile this side of it.
Now, between Frank Dunbar and Zeke Tucker there was no love lost. There had been a difficulty between them, originating at school, which need not be particularly referred to. Enough that it led to Zeke’s cordially disliking Frank, while the latter, who was a frank, straightforward boy, could not see anything in Mr. Tucker’s promising son to enlist either his respect or his liking.
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