Of course it looked like it. Strolling away to pick up anything else that people might be saying, we gave Fred our best wishes for his escape—in spite of the shot—and for effectually dodging old Jones and the rest of the Philistines. Tod made no secret of his sentiments.
“It’s a thing that might have happened to you or to me, you see, Johnny, were we turned out of doors and driven to bay as Fred has been.”
By the afternoon, great staring hand-bills were posted about, written in enormous text-hand, offering a reward of twenty pounds for the apprehension of Frederick Westerbrook. When old Westerbrook was incensed, he went in for the whole thing, and no mistake.
What with the bustle the place was in, and the excitement of the chase—for all the hedges and ditches, the barns and the suspected dwellings were being looked up by old Jones and a zealous crowd, anxious for the reward—it was not until after dinner in the evening that I got away to practice. Going along, I met Duffham, and asked after Gisby.
“I am on my way to Shepherd’s now,” he answered. “I suppose he is still alive, as they have not sent me word to the contrary.”
“Is he sure to die, Mr. Duffham?”
“I fear so, Johnny. I don’t see much chance of saving him.”
“What a dreadful thing for Fred Westerbrook! They may bring it in wilful murder.”
“That they will be sure to do. Good-evening, lad; I have no time to linger with you.”
Bumford was probably looking out for the fugitive (and the reward) on his own score, as he was not to be seen; but I found the key inside the knife-box on the kitchen dresser, his store-place for it, opened the door, and went into the church.