“Maybe Bill’s friends are out looking for him,” suggested Collins.
“Or it may be Grissy,” cried Ardmore in sudden alarm.
“Your professor is undoubtedly asleep in his camp on the Raccoon,” replied Collins contemptuously. “Do not be alarmed, Mr. Ardmore.”
Cooke impatiently bade them be quiet.
“If we’re accosted, what shall we say?” he asked.
“We’ll say,” replied Jerry instantly, “that one of the labourers at Ardsley is dead, and that we are taking his remains to his wife’s family at Turner’s. I shall be his grief-stricken widow.”
The guards already had Appleweight down on the floor of the wagon, where one of them sat on his feet to make sure he did not create a disturbance. At her own suggestion Jerry dismounted and climbed into the wagon, where she sat on the sideboard, with her head deeply bowed as though in grief.
“Pretty picture of a sorrowing widow,” mumbled Collins. Ardmore punched him in the ribs to make him stop laughing. To the quick step of walking horses ahead of them was now added the whisper and creak of leather.
“Hello, there!” yelled Cooke, wishing to take the initiative.
“Hey-O!” answered a voice, and all was still.