“Sure you are? That’s good. Where is that Smalley boy? I told him to look out for these horses. Where is he?”
Josiah was on his way home and not lingering by the way.
“Who stopped them after they started?” demanded Townsend. Hands and tongues indicated Griffin.
“Humph! I’m much obliged to you. You kept your head, I judge, and that is a lot.... Humph! You aren’t a Harniss boy, are you? What is your name?”
Bob hesitated. Esther supplied the information.
“He is Bob Griffin, Uncle Foster,” she said. “He lives in Denboro.”
There was a stir in the crowd, then a hush. Many of those present knew that Bob Griffin was Elisha Cook’s grandson. This meeting, under such circumstances, was momentous, it was epoch-making—something to be talked about at home, at the post office, everywhere. What would Foster Townsend say when he heard that name?
He said very little. “Griffin?” he repeated. “Oh!... Humph! Yes, yes. Well, my niece and I are much obliged to you.”
Bob, embarrassed, muttered that it was all right, he had not done anything.
“Well, you did it pretty well, from what I hear.... Now, Esther, we’ll go home. You needn’t worry. They won’t run away again, not when I’m at the wheel.... Young man, if you will get down from there, I’ll get up.”