"We ain't got much," answered the woman.
"I'll pay you well," he replied. "I'll have to carry it with me. It's getting dark and I must be getting on to Chattanooga."
"Will some ham an' some bread do?"
"Splendidly."
She went into the kitchen.
"How did you say that bridge caught on fire?" asked the old man.
"Sparks from a locomotive, I suppose."
"You don't say so—in all this rain!"
Five minutes later he left the store and disappeared down the road which led to Chattanooga. Then he climbed a fence and made his way across the fields to a road which ran north. For a half-hour he plodded through the mud. The strain of the long day was commencing to tell upon him, and each step forward cost a mighty effort. The hunks of mud which accumulated on his shoes felt like blocks of lead weighing him down.
"About enough for this day," he mumbled to himself. Ahead of him he saw a barn, standing a few yards from the road. Farther along, perhaps a hundred yards, was the house with its lighted windows. He walked close to the rail fence and approached the barn cautiously, listening for dogs; then he crawled under the fence and squatted there, waiting. It was still light enough for him to be seen from the house, and so he decided not to make the rush for the barn until later. Several minutes passed, then he heard the sound of boots splashing along the muddy road, and the mumble of voices. He threw himself on the wet sod and lay there, hidden by the weeds and darkness. The voices came near.