Somehow the chorus seemed that night to have been changed. As I lay there and listened for the sound of my father's wagon, the frogs sang after this fashion:
You'd better go home!
You'd better go home!
They'll shoot your head off!
They'll shoot your head off!
And, oh! how that old bull-frog with the bass voice came in on the chorus:
“They'll shoot your head off!”
We got up at daylight, and walked over to the plank road and waited for the stage from Berlin to come along, en route to Troy. When the vehicle came in sight, I hid in the bushes until Tracy could reconnoiter and ascertain if iny father was on board. He gave a signal that the coast was clear, and we took passage for the city.
“You're Alex Allen's boy?” the driver—Frank Maxon—said, as we took seats in the stage.
“What about it?”
“I heard 'em say at the post-office this morning that you'd run away.”
“False report,” said Tracy; “he's just going to Troy to bid me good-by.”
“Well, he must be struck on you, as they say he never set eyes on you till yesterday.”