“I think the house must have burned down,” he said, “for there isn’t any to be seen. It’s a good place, Jerry. We must be eighteen or twenty miles from Oakdale. We can stop here and keep out of sight all through the day, if necessary.”
So they tried the door of the barn and found it unfastened. In the black darkness they felt their way cautiously, at last climbing upon a haymow, where Jerry sank down exhausted.
“Perhaps they’ll give it up when they find we’re gone, Ben,” said the blind boy, shivering. “Maybe they won’t try to follow us.”
“Maybe not. We’ll hope so, anyway. Bern Hayden will be glad when he finds out. He’ll rejoice over it.”
They burrowed into the hay and talked for a time of various plans, while gradually, in spite of their drenched condition, the heat of their bodies as they snuggled close together warmed them through. Pilot crept up against Jerry and contented himself. The wind swept against the old barn and moaned through cracks, while the rain beat unceasingly upon the roof.
Ben thought of Bern Hayden’s fine home, and he had a wrestle with the bitter resentment against fate which sought to claim him. At first it seemed that everything in the world was wrong and that those who least deserved it, or did not deserve it at all, were most favored by fortune; but then he remembered Roger, to whose home he had been welcomed, and he knew that some who were worthy were privileged to bask in prosperity’s sunshine.
Finally the mournful sweep of the wind and the fitful beating of rain lulled his senses, and he slept—slept to dream of Hayden leering triumphantly upon him. In his sleep he muttered:
“Wait—wait; my time will come!”