“Where are you going?” he challenged.
“To Carver Centre,” said the boy.
To chance Lathrop had left the decision. He believed the fates had answered.
Dragging his bicycle over the stone wall, he fell into the road.
“Go on,” he commanded. “I’ll use your cart for a screen. I’ll creep behind the enemy before he sees me.”
The baker’s boy frowned unhappily.
“But supposing,” he argued, “they see you first, will they shoot?”
The scout waved his hand carelessly.
“Of course,” he cried.
“Then,” said the baker, “my horse will run away!”