He fairly moaned out the words, and putting his hand to his head sank weakly into a chair. Mrs. Blackford regarded her husband pityingly and darted toward him, fearing he was going to faint, though he had never done it in his life. Then a sudden idea came to her.
She rushed over to the clock, opened it and fell back, raising her hands in the air in astonishment.
“Mine’s gone too!” she cried! “The thirty-nine dollars I had in the clock! The burglar took that too! Oh, this is terrible! You must call the constables, Amos! We’ve been robbed! They took my money! Call Joe, and send him after Hen Sylvester. I’ll call him,” for the deacon seemed incapable of action just then.
Mrs. Blackford hurried upstairs, and called:
“Joe! Joe! Get up! There’ve been burglars in the house! They’ve robbed your pa and me, and set fire to the place! Get up and go for the constables!”
“Is he coming?” asked the deacon, whose heart was not beating quite so fast now.
“I can’t seem to make him hear,” said Mrs. Blackford.
“I’ll rout him out,” said the old man. “I guess he’d better go after the constable. He can go quicker than I can.”
But Joe did not answer to this summons either, and when the door of his room was opened, showing his undisturbed bed, and when a quick search revealed that he had taken most of his belongings the deacon jumped to the most natural conclusion.
“He’s gone, Abigail!” he cried. “Joe’s run away, and it was him that robbed us and set fire to the place!”