THE ARREST.
A lance of sunshine, piercing a crack in the old barn, struck squarely into Ben Stone’s eyes and awoke him. For a few moments he lay still without comprehending, the odor of the haymow in his nostrils; his head alone was uncovered by the hay into which the fugitives had burrowed. High up in the peak of the barn the morning light streamed in through a broken, dusty, cobwebby window; with the passing of the night the storm had passed also, and the new day was bright and fair.
Ben turned his head slowly, softly, and saw his brother sleeping beside him, which sight brought back with a rush the memories of recent events leading up to and including the flight by night from Oakdale. They were fugitives, he and Jerry—fugitives and wanderers upon the face of the earth.
Jerry awoke; the sightless eyes unclosed and a faint smile crept over his face. “Ben,” he called, moving a hand to touch the lad at his side—“Ben, is it you?”
“Yes, Jerry. Did I wake you up? I didn’t mean to do so.”
“Oh, I’m glad you did; I’m glad to know we’re together again. It is morning.”
“Yes, it is morning; the sun is shining.”
“I’m warm and dry and comfortable now. I was so wet and cold when we found this place last night!”
“It was a mean old night. If it hadn’t stormed, we’d got a much bigger start—we’d be lots further away from Oakdale now.”
“We’d better stay here all day long, Ben, for anyone won’t be likely to find us. That’s the way I did at first—hid in the daytime and traveled at night.”