I esteemed it great good luck when I saw a man standing in the edge of a cornfield staring at us. He was a common-looking fellow with a dirty face. Stupid, I thought, but perhaps he has seen what happened here and can tell me. I hailed him, and he answered in a thick voice, though not unfriendly. I asked him about the horse, and if he knew who had abandoned him there. He answered with that degree of excitement a plowboy would most likely show on such occasions that he was just going to tell us about it. I bade him haste with his narration.
He said, with thick, excited tongue, that a man had come along the road urging his horse into a gallop. When they reached the field the horse broke down and would go no farther. The rider, after belaboring him in vain, leaped down, and, leaving the horse to care for himself, turned from the road.
This news excited Whitestone, Adams, and me. It was confirmation of our suspicions, and proof also that we were pressing Chudleigh hard.
“How long ago was that?” I asked.
“Not five minutes,” replied the plowman.
“Which way did he go?” I asked, my excitement increasing.
“He took the side road yonder,” replied the plowman.
“What road?” exclaimed Whitestone, breaking in.
“The road that leads off to the right—yonder, at the end of the field.”