"David Hartman can have everything," wailed Alvin, his aching bones making themselves felt. "He had no business to come after me. He has a rich pop. He—"
"He has a horrible pop," answered Katy. "He chased me once when I was little, and I never did him anything. Why, Alvin!" Katy stopped in the dusty road. "There is David's pop in his buggy at your gate!"
Alvin grew deathly pale, he remembered his father's madness, his threats, the crime which he had committed and which he blamed upon John Hartman.
"What is it?" cried Katy. "What ails you, Alvin? He would not dare to touch me now that I am big. Come!"
"No!" Alvin would not move. "Look once at him, Katy! Something is the matter with him!"
"I am not afraid," insisted Katy bravely. "I am—he is sick, Alvin; he is sitting quiet in his buggy." She went close to the wheel. "Mr. Hartman!" She turned and looked at Alvin, then back at the figure in the buggy. "His head hangs down, Alvin, and he will not answer me. I believe he is dead, Alvin!"
Slowly Alvin moved to Katy's side. He laid a hand upon her arm—Katy thought it was to protect her; in reality Alvin sought support in his deadly fear.
"I believe it, too, Katy!"
Speechlessly the two gazed at each other. When Alvin had shouted wildly for his father and Katy had joined her voice to his and there was no answer, the two set off, hand in hand, running recklessly down the mountain road.