CHAPTER VII
BOB’S PLANS.
BOB hardly knew what to do with himself. He ran down the lane at the top of his speed until he was out of breath, and then seated himself on a log in a fence corner to think over his situation. All his bright dreams had vanished like the mists of the morning. His friend Lester had overthrown all his air-castles by the confession he had made, and worse than that, he had placed Bob in a predicament such as no boy had ever been placed in before.
“I will never speak to him again as long as I live,” said Bob, shaking his fist at some imaginary object. “The three hundred and sixty dollars a year that I had hoped to earn will be sure to go into the pockets of that Dave Evans, for there is no one to run against him now that I am off the track. And while he is riding about the country, holding his head high in the air and sporting his fine clothes and hunting and fishing outfit (Bob thought David would spend the money he earned just as he himself would have spent it had he been fortunate enough to secure the position of mail carrier), what will I be doing? I might as well be in the swamp with Godfrey, for I shall never dare to look anybody in the face again. And Lester promised faithfully to stand by me, too.”
Bob had one lesson yet to learn, and that was, if he wanted a friend who would stand by him in any emergency, he must not look for him among boys like Lester Brigham.
“My thirty dollars a month have gone up in smoke,” continued Bob, who was more enraged when he thought of his defeat than he was when he thought of the damaging disclosures Lester had made, “and what hurts me is the knowledge that Dave will get them. I hope somebody will rob him the very first time he rides out with that mail-bag. If I get a good chance I’ll do it myself.”
If Bob had only known it, he was gradually working himself into a very dangerous frame of mind. The feelings to which he had given utterance were like those that had led Clarence Gordon and Dan Evans into so much difficulty. If Bob had been able to look far enough into the future to see the trouble that they were destined to bring him into, he would have banished them with all possible haste, angry and reckless as he was at that moment. He remained seated on his log for two hours, growing alarmed every time he recalled the incidents connected with the burning of the shooting-box and the attempt to rob the negro cabin, and furious whenever he thought of the cowardice of his trusted friend; and when he had thought the matter over without having made up his mind to anything, he arose and walked toward the house.
“I must go home some time, and I might as well go now as an hour later,” thought he. “Of course the family know all about it, and I’d rather be whipped than see my mother, but it can’t be helped. I wish to goodness one of those bears up in Michigan had made an end to that cowardly Yankee before he ever came down here to get me into this mess. I don’t believe he ever saw Michigan. I know he never saw a wild bear until this morning.”
With a dogged resolution to face the consequences of his misdeeds, whatever they might be, Bob settled his hat firmly on his head, clenched his hands, and walked rapidly along the lane, until he reached the house. He slammed the gate behind him, ran up the steps that led to the porch, and after hanging his hat on a nail in the hall, opened the door that gave entrance into the sitting-room. Its only occupant was his father, who sat by the fire reading a newspaper.
“Ah! Bob, there’s something else I wanted to tell you,” said the latter, in a tone of voice which would have led a stranger to believe that he and Bob had just been conversing on some agreeable subject. Mr. Owens never held a grudge against his son, as a good many fathers do. When he had said what he had to say in regard to any of Bob’s misdeeds, that was the end of the matter.