“Well, I guess his disposition is considerably quieted down by this time,” laughed Jack, as the chastened king of the jungle went limping off down the road.
“The same thing applies to that bunch of circus men, I guess,” chimed in Tom.
All three of the lads had to laugh as they saw the lately belligerent show folks decamping down the road at a lively rate. They did not return till Wallace had wandered off across some meadows. The lads learned later that the lion was killed by a farmer the next day as it was attacking some cows, and that the circus men had to pay heavy damages. However, at the time, they did not linger in the vicinity, but resumed their journey as speedily as possible.
Ralph was pale and trembling from his narrow escape, and he had good reason to be, for it is easy to guess what his fate would have been if he had come once more into possession of the rascally circus crew.
Before long they came to a point where the road forked. A signboard standing there directed travelers to Compton, five miles, and Wynburg, three miles.
“I guess we’ll go through Compton,” decided Jack, taking the road that turned to the right, “it’s a little longer way round, but it’s a better road.”
Their way now lay under a high arch of interlacing tree boughs that met above the track. It was cool and pleasant, and when they reached a little brook the three lads decided to get out and eat some of the sandwiches and pie they had brought with them. They made a merry meal of it there under the trees, washing down their lunch with water from a small spring which supplied the brook.
They had just finished and were thinking of resuming their journey, when a sudden sound broke into the stillness of the woodland road—a series of sharp puffs.
“It’s an auto,” exclaimed Jack, who readily recognized the sounds.
“And it’s coming this way, too,” decided Tom.