“That’s more’n I’ve got,” whined Godfrey.
“I shouldn’t care a snap if we had only found the barrel,” continued Clarence. “With my pockets full of money I could go anywhere; but as it is, how am I going to get home? That’s what troubles me. Of course I can’t stay here!”
“No more can I,” said Godfrey.
“Yes, you can. No one will ever say a word to you about it; but I can’t face any of my uncle’s family after what I have done. Of course Don will blow the whole thing the minute he gets out. He can’t avoid it, unless he tells a lie, and that’s something he says he never did in his life. I wish to goodness I could say as much!”
Clarence had, beyond a doubt, placed himself in a very unpleasant situation, and the longer he talked and thought about it, the more vividly did the fact seem to impress itself upon his mind. One thing was certain: he could not stay under his uncle’s roof any longer, and he thought it would be policy to get as far as possible out of the way before the general returned. He ran around the corner of the crib to the place where the pony was standing, and paying no heed to Godfrey’s earnest entreaties that he would stay just long enough to tell him what he ought to do under the circumstances, Clarence sprang into the saddle and galloped out of the yard. Almost involuntarily he turned down the road toward Godfrey’s cabin. He had a vague idea that something might yet be done to avert the calamity he so much dreaded. If Don would promise to say nothing about what had happened the night before, and make up some plausible story to tell his father, he (Clarence) would release him, and read him a lecture on the subject of practical joking. That much being arranged, he could, perhaps, content himself on the plantation for two weeks longer, during which time he could write to his mother, who would be sure to send him money to take him home, if he asked for it. As soon as it arrived he would bid good-by to all his relatives in Mississippi; and when he was once safely on board a steamer bound up the river, he did not care how soon Don told about passing the night in the potato-hole. The longer Clarence thought of this, the more feasible did the plan seem. It all rested with Don, and he was a good-hearted fellow, who, for the sake of keeping his cousin out of trouble, ought to be willing to tell a lie. Clarence thought it would do do harm to ask him, at any rate; and with this object in view he put the pony into a gallop, and went down the lane at a more rapid rate than he had ever before travelled on horseback.
Arriving at the turn in the road, where he had remained to keep guard over the prisoner while Godfrey was gone after the rope, Clarence dismounted, tied the pony to a swinging branch, climbed the fence and made his way through the brier-patch toward the potato-hole. He listened repeatedly, but could not hear Don’s whistle, and he hoped that it was because his cousin was tired and had stopped to rest; but something told him that it was because he had been liberated. This proved to be the truth of the matter, as Clarence found when he reached the cellar. The door stood wide open, and looking in he saw the plough-line with which his cousin had been bound, lying in pieces at the foot of the stanchion.
“It’s all over with me,” thought Clarence, hurrying away from the cellar with as much haste as he would have exhibited had he seen some frightful object there. “Very likely he is at home by this time telling all he knows. I wish I was at home too. I don’t see why I ever consented to come here.”
Clarence suddenly stopped and listened intently. A few weeks ago he would not have noticed the sound that attracted his attention, but he noticed it now, faint as it was, and he was glad to hear it, too. It was the sound of a steam whistle, and it came from the river below him. He recognised it at once, for he had heard it often during his journey down the river. “That’s the Emma Deane,” thought he. “She has been to New Orleans, and is now on her way up the river. Can I reach the landing in time to catch her, I wonder? I will, if Don’s pony has the wind to stand the gallop.”
Clarence ran through the brier-patch, scratching his hands and face and tearing his clothes at almost every step, but nothing could stop his progress. Reaching the fence where he had left the pony, he quickly untied him, and jumping on his back, went tearing up the road with all the speed the spirited little animal could be induced to put forth. He did not look up when he passed his uncle’s house, but kept his hat down over his eyes, urged on the pony, and finally disappeared around the bend, and entered a thick piece of woods that bounded that side of General Gordon’s plantation. As he dashed along wholly engrossed with his gloomy thoughts, and intent on reaching the landing before the steamer, there was a violent rustling among the bushes, the pony jumped quickly to one side, and his rider, being taken off his guard, was thrown flat in the middle of the dusty lane. Clarence scrambled to his feet and made a blind dash to recover the bridle which had been pulled from his grasp, but the pony was too quick for him. He wheeled on the instant, flourished his heels in the air and started for home.
Clarence was not injured in the least by the fall, but he was pretty well shaken, and so nearly blinded by the dust that it was a minute or two before he could collect his scattered senses, and clear his eyes so that he could take note of what was going on around him. The first thing he saw was the pony’s white tail disappearing around the turn in the road, and the next was Godfrey Evans, who arose from a thicket of bushes, and hurrying up laid hold of the boy’s collar.