“Ah, I see. That’s a good plan, and saves bills at the livery stable.”
They came to a tempting bank by the roadside, when Yates cried:
“Let’s sit down and have a rest. I’m done out. The sun is hot, and the road dusty. You can let me have half an hour: the day’s young, yet.”
“I’ll let you have fifteen minutes.”
They sat down together. “I wish a team would come along,” said Yates with a sigh.
“No chance of a team, with most of the horses in the neighborhood stolen, and the troops on the roads.”
“That’s so,” assented Yates sleepily.
He was evidently tired out, for his chin dropped on his breast, and his eyes closed. His breathing came soft and regular, and his body leaned toward the constable, who sat bolt upright. Yates’ left arm fell across the knees of Stoliker, and he leaned more and more heavily against him. The constable did not know whether he was shamming or not, but he took no risks. He kept his grasp firm on the butt of the revolver. Yet, he reflected, Yates could surely not meditate an attempt on his weapon, for he had, a few minutes before, told him a story about a prisoner who escaped in exactly that way. Stoliker was suspicious of the good intentions of the man he had in charge; he was altogether too polite and good-natured; and, besides, the constable dumbly felt that the prisoner was a much cleverer man than he.
“Here, sit up,” he said gruffly. “I’m not paid to carry you, you know.”
“What’s that? What’s that? What’s that?” cried Yates rapidly, blinking his eyes and straightening up. “Oh, it’s only you, Stoliker. I thought it was my friend Renmark. Have I been asleep?”