Ben mounted the stairs in haste. “Here, Jerry,” he said, “let me try these shoes on you. Let’s see if they fit.” His hands trembled a bit as he removed the remnants of the shoes the blind boy had worn and tried the others upon Jerry’s feet. “How do they feel?” he asked, as he hastened to lace them.

“All right,” was the answer. “But what’s the matter, Ben? You’re panting and excited. Has anything happened?”

“I’ve been hurrying,” said Ben evasively.

But even the little yellow dog seemed to realize that something was wrong, for he moved about uneasily, eying the brothers and whining.

“I’ve decided we had better leave Oakdale at once—right away,” said Ben, as he rose to his feet. “Sit still, Jerry, while I gather up the things I must take.”

“Ben,” said the younger lad, with conviction, “something has happened. You’re nervous and alarmed; I know it by your voice. Why don’t you tell me, Ben—why don’t you tell me?”

At any rate, it would be necessary to tell him in a few moments, and so, seeking to frighten the blind boy as little as possible, Ben did so at once. The moment Jerry learned a man had appeared in Oakdale asking for him he became panic-stricken; his face grew pallid and he trembled in every limb.

“They will take me away from you, brother—they will separate us!” he exclaimed.

“They shall not!” cried the older lad fiercely. “I had decided already to leave Oakdale to-morrow; we’ll leave to-night—we’ll slip away at once. Keep still, Jerry, and I’ll make all the preparations.”

“But what if that man should come—what if he should come before we can start?”

“He’ll have to get here in a hurry to find us.”

Indeed, it did not take Ben Stone long to make a bundle of the few belongings he felt he must take. A great deal of his poor personal property he had resolved to abandon for the time being, confident that Mrs. Jones would take care of everything for him. Sometime when there was no longer danger he could recover it all.

“We’ll get out of the house without saying a word to anybody,” said Ben. “That’s the best way, although I hate to do it, for we seem to be running away like criminals.”

At the last moment, smitten by regret because fancied necessity seemed to compel him to leave without bidding the kind widow good-by, he seized a piece of brown paper and the stub of a pencil and sat down to write a few words of farewell—Jerry urging him to hasten even while he was scribbling. This was what he wrote:

At this point Jerry’s impatient pleading could be no longer resisted, and, hastily signing his name, Ben left the note of farewell where it could not be overlooked by Mrs. Jones. With all possible stealth they descended the stairs and got softly out of the house.

The night had come on overcast and dark, heavy clouds veiling the moon. A raw wind, chill and dank, came from the east, soughing fitfully through the bare limbs of the trees and sending fallen leaves scurrying along the ground. Just outside the gate Ben turned to look back at the lighted windows. Mamie, accompanying herself on the melodeon, was singing, and there was a choking sensation in Ben’s throat as he listened.

“Come,” entreated Jerry; and they fled on past the silent academy, the gym and the athletic field—on into the bleak night. The blind boy had brought his violin, and it was swung by the cord over his back.

With the village behind them, Ben paused once more to look around. The lights of Oakdale twinkled far down the road. It was there he had dreamed pleasant dreams; it was there he had fought his fight until victory seemed within his grasp; but those dreams were over, and he had been conquered by cruel fate in the hour of his triumph. Fear, which frequently perverts the soundest judgment, had forced him, without reasoning or sober thought, into this flight by night.

They went on, and soon a barren shoulder of Turkey Hill shut out those lights and they were alone on the highway that led to the northwest.

“We’ll be followed, Ben,” said Jerry apprehensively. “What can we do?”

“If you, blind and alone, save for Pilot, could avoid pursuers so long, surely together we must find it a simpler matter. Trust me. This is not the first time I have been forced into running away.”

“I know—I know; but they didn’t try to catch you, Ben. They let you go and thought it good riddance. Now it’s different.”

“I don’t understand why they should put themselves to so much trouble and expense to find you, Jerry, and shut you up in an institution. Perhaps they’ll give it up after a while.”

Hand in hand they went on through the black night. At times Pilot, having trotted a short distance ahead, would pause to peer at them through the blackness, and whine. The wind moaned across the open spaces and crashed the limbs of trees together while they were passing through strips of woods. The dampness in the atmosphere added to the penetration of the chill, and Jerry’s teeth chattered.

They came to Barville, ten miles from Oakdale, and were in the outskirts of the dark and silent village before they were aware of it. They were tempted to try to circle round the place, fearing someone might see them, but only two or three dim lights gleamed faintly from windows, and not a soul did they encounter on the streets of the town. Once a dog barked in a house they were passing, but Jerry was swift enough in bidding Pilot be still to prevent the little animal from answering.

Beyond Barville they paused to rest, and Ben, hearing Jerry’s teeth chatter, persisted in pulling off his coat and buttoning it about the blind lad’s shoulders. In this manner the violin on Jerry’s back was protected when, later, a fine, drizzling rain began.

“But you’ll be wet through, Ben, and you’ll catch cold,” said Jerry. “I wish you’d take your coat.”

“I’m all right,” laughed the elder brother. “I’m tough, and there’s never anything the matter with me. Perhaps we can find shelter somewhere.”

The rain, driven in the teeth of the wind, soon drenched him through; and when at last he perceived near the road an old barn with no house at hand, even Ben was more than willing to stop.

“I think the house must have burned down,” he said, “for there isn’t any to be seen. It’s a good place, Jerry. We must be eighteen or twenty miles from Oakdale. We can stop here and keep out of sight all through the day, if necessary.”

So they tried the door of the barn and found it unfastened. In the black darkness they felt their way cautiously, at last climbing upon a haymow, where Jerry sank down exhausted.

“Perhaps they’ll give it up when they find we’re gone, Ben,” said the blind boy, shivering. “Maybe they won’t try to follow us.”

“Maybe not. We’ll hope so, anyway. Bern Hayden will be glad when he finds out. He’ll rejoice over it.”

They burrowed into the hay and talked for a time of various plans, while gradually, in spite of their drenched condition, the heat of their bodies as they snuggled close together warmed them through. Pilot crept up against Jerry and contented himself. The wind swept against the old barn and moaned through cracks, while the rain beat unceasingly upon the roof.

Ben thought of Bern Hayden’s fine home, and he had a wrestle with the bitter resentment against fate which sought to claim him. At first it seemed that everything in the world was wrong and that those who least deserved it, or did not deserve it at all, were most favored by fortune; but then he remembered Roger, to whose home he had been welcomed, and he knew that some who were worthy were privileged to bask in prosperity’s sunshine.

Finally the mournful sweep of the wind and the fitful beating of rain lulled his senses, and he slept—slept to dream of Hayden leering triumphantly upon him. In his sleep he muttered:

“Wait—wait; my time will come!”