“I’ll bring it. Now, you set down, and I’ll be back with water and grub in no time.” He gave her a final look, then started off quickly.
It was plain that he only half believed her. He was going to learn for himself whether or not her father was at the farm-house. He was counting on her hunger and thirst to hold her there in the strip of shade while he was gone. Her instinct told her that.
It told her more. She knew she must get away. But not at once. The shady side of the stack did not face toward the farm-house. Soon the man, reaching the fence that skirted the yard, would be out of sight of Phœbe were she to remain in the shade, for a corner of the hay would hide her. She waited.
Presently, peering around that corner, she saw the man climb the fence. As he stepped on the farther side, she stood boldly in sight. He looked around toward her, and she swung her hat at him!
He waved back, and turned away.
Then she ran—straight in the opposite direction, and as hard as she could go. Terror gave her strength, terror of she knew not what. She forgot hunger and thirst and weariness: she thought only of putting distance between herself and that man.
Her way led her back to the road. Even as she set foot upon it, an automobile turned into it from a side lane that ran at right angles to road and track. The machine was a small, open car, driven by an elderly man. Phœbe went to the middle of the road and held up her hand.
“He isn’t from town,” she argued. “Nobody’s told him about me.”
The elderly man stopped. “Want a ride?” he called down cheerily.
“Would you mind?” inquired Phœbe. “You see I want to go to town, because my aunt, who’s camping over here,”—she waved a hand in the direction of the hay-stack—“feels sort of sick, and wants some medicine.”