“Yes, that’s Johnson’s team,” said John, and then he turned his head away.
They all stood silently until at last the gig came up to where they were. The constable and his deputy were both in it. The constable drew up the horse, and threw the reins to the deputy. Then he stepped out and came over to where the others were standing, drawing a paper out of his breast-pocket as he did so. He had not said a word up to this time.
“I know what you’re coming for,” said Tom; “I’m ready to go with you, Johnson.”
“The Lord knows—I’d rather lose a hundred dollars, than have to do this,” said the constable.
“I believe you would,” said Tom.
“Can thee wait a little while, Eben?” said Tom’s father; “I’d like to drive over to Squire Morrow’s along with you. I’ll slip up to the house and gear Nelly to the wagon; it won’t take me a minute.”
The constable drew a watch out of his fob, and looked at it. “I guess I can wait a little bit, Mr. Granger,” said he; “the witnesses weren’t all at the squire’s when I left. You’ll have to step into the gig though, Tom, and I’ll—I’ll have to put cuffs on you.”
“Will you have to do that?”
“I’m afraid I will;”—he drew the hand-cuffs out of his pocket as he spoke; there was a sharp “click! click!” and Tom felt the cold iron circling his wrists.
His father groaned, and when Tom looked at him, he saw that his face was as white as wax. He turned, and he and John walked slowly up the lane toward the house.