The bailiff hastily dispatched his breakfast, and the horses being ready, he called to his young assistant to follow him, and he went out and got into his saddle.
“Where the deuce am I to go after them, when there are so many roads to choose from?” groaned old Purley, in sore perplexity of spirit.
“Would they not be likely to make straight for the east and a seaport?” inquired farmer Nye suggestively.
“To be sure they would,” exclaimed Mr. Purley. “So now, Munson, we will go right back upon the road we came last night,” he added, being still in ignorance as to the lost day.
“And as the stable boy told me, they had taken the wagon horses to ride, and those horses were then fairly knocked up with fatigue, while ours are now quite fresh, we may very soon overtake them,” put in Munson, artfully.
And waving their hats in adieux to the farmer and his family, they rode off at full speed in pursuit of the fugitives. But they had not ridden more than a hundred yards, and had but just reached the four cross-roads, when they were both startled by a shrill—
“Whist!”
They drew their reins, and looked around just as the head of a negro boy emerged from the bushes, exclaiming
“Hallo, Marster!”
“Who are you? What do you want?” demanded Purley.