“Ye kin walk ef ye like, but I’ll keep an eye on ye, and a hand, too.”
Half leading, half dragging her, Al Wixon went deeper into the forest on the far side of the pool. A trackless way it was, but they came out at last in a tiny clearing where stood a hut, apparently deserted. It was, in fact, only a wooden shanty that had been built for temporary shelter near an abandoned quarry.
“There! I’ll hive ye up here till I git my things and come back. Ye can’t git out, and it’s no use to holler. No one kin hear ye. We’ll start to-night, and work along up New York State and into Canady, and then ye kin sing fer yer Aunt Kate. I reckon ye thought ye was goin’ to be made a lady of, did ye? Gosh! Ye air growin’ purty! Look like yer ma used ter, a leetle mite.”
“Don’t you speak of my mother to me,—you——!”
“He, he! Spitfire! Well, I kin lick that out’n ye when we git to Canady. Now set easy, and ef you yip, I’ll take yer head off! I’ll be back afore night. I got to git some duffle I left in town.”
Al Wixon’s footfalls died away, and Betsy drew a longer breath and looked around. There was only one window and a door. The window was nailed up on the outside, and the door, too, was fastened on the outside with two bars put rudely across. The window had only one pane of glass, anyway, and was too small to crawl through, even if the glass were broken.
Betsy leaned against the door to think. She would be taken away, and would never see Aunt Kate and Uncle Ben again. And Van would be left behind. Where was the little comrade now?
“Oh, Vanny-Boy!” she wailed.
Sh! What was that? She listened. A scratching sound, and then a little whine on the other side of the door.
“Van!” she whispered. “Oh, my little Van, are you there?”