He could not hear his foster-parents talking now, and he wondered whether his fate had been decided on. In such case the deacon might come upstairs with the whip he occasionally used on Joe.
“If he comes I won’t let him in,” thought our hero, as he locked his room door. “He’ll have to break that down to get me, and I don’t believe he’ll do it—cost him too much for repairs. As soon as it’s dark enough, I’ll slip out the window. No, I guess I’d better wait until they’re in bed and asleep. No use taking chances, and I’ve got plenty of time. I’ll wait until about midnight.”
Joe went on with his preparations for leaving home. He had no regrets, for, after all, it had not been much of a home of late.
“If only my father and mother were alive!” Joe said softly. “It sure would be great to travel around the country with them. My father could show me all his new tricks, and my mother would teach me more about horses. But there’s no use wishing.”
As Joe stood looking out through the window he saw Deacon Blackford pass, walking down the street in the direction of the feed and grain store which he owned.
“That’s queer,” mused Joe. “I wonder what he’s going back to the store for at this hour. He never does that so near supper time. He must have forgotten something. Or maybe he’s got something new in his head about me. I wonder what he’s going back for?”
Joe might have wondered still more could he have looked into the feed store a little later. For Deacon Blackford was in close consultation with two men—in such close consultation that it was necessary to shut and lock the office door.
“Well, you’ve come back, I see,” remarked one of the men. He had shifty eyes that did not gaze straight at the person with whom he was talking.
“Yes, Denton, I’ve come back, as I said I would,” replied Mr. Blackford. “But I tell you now, it’s no use! I’m not going to give up another cent.”
“Will you give us the papers then?” asked the man called Denton. He seemed to be pleading, rather than demanding.