When she awoke, it was night, and she was cold. What awoke her was a train, plunging past her overhead, with shrieks of its whistle, a roar of wheels, and a clanking as of many chains.
She smiled to herself in the dark. What would the people on the train say if they knew that beneath them, as they tore along, was a little girl who was running away? “Some day, when I’m a famous actress,” she promised herself, “I’ll write all about this to the newspapers. And then the people in the train will remember, and be awfully interested.”
She was strangely unafraid. For one reason, she felt so secure. In the first place, she must be many miles from home. They would not think of searching for her at such a distance. If they did, who in the world would ever dream (if he were to pass that bridge) that she was curled up snugly under one end of it? “I couldn’t have found a better place,” she declared, pleased with her own judgment. “Tomorrow night I’ll hunt another bridge just like this.”
She tucked her coat more carefully about her, then composed herself for more sleep. She heard little noises about her, as if a rabbit were out, or a badger. She felt that rabbits and badgers would add a touch to her story—that story she would write about herself when she was famous. She began to word it now. The account merged into something her father was saying. It was: “She hasn’t gone past here. I feel sure of that. Let’s take our time——”
CHAPTER XXII
“Let’s take time——”
Phœbe opened her eyes. It was broad daylight. Another train was passing overhead, shutting out the sound of the voice. She raised herself a little, and peered to both sides.
What she saw was men—two lines of them! Each was a little distance away from his nearest neighbors. All were walking in the same direction—toward the little town. The train gone, Phœbe could hear the men calling to one another. She wondered what it was all about.
Then she knew! They were hunting her! If they found her, they would drag her out, all dusty as she was, and carry her back with them. And she would be laughed at, and talked about, and pointed out, as if she were wicked, or crazy.
Once she had told herself that she did not care what the town thought or said. Now she knew that if she were to return, a culprit, she could not bear it, could not face anyone again. She had feared to face them all—Uncle John in particular—after her discovery by Mrs. Botts. But now—! This was a thousand times worse!