Kit turned and began to continue his journey.
"Hallo! Stop, I tell you!" shouted the blacksmith.
"Have you got any more to say? If so, I'll listen."
"What more I have to say, I shall say with a horsewhip!" retorted Bickford, grimly, preparing to descend from his wagon.
"Come, William, we must run for it," said Kit. "Are you good at running?"
"Try me!" was the laconic reply.
By the time Aaron Bickford was out of his wagon, the boys had increased the distance between them by several rods.
"Oho, so that's your game, is it?" said the blacksmith. "If I don't overhaul them, my name isn't Aaron Bickford."
Kit was a good runner—quite as good as his pursuer—but he had one serious disadvantage. His valise was heavy, and materially affected his speed. He had carried it several miles, and though he had shifted it from one hand to the other, both arms were now tired.
"Let me take it, Kit," said his companion, who was now on intimate terms with him.