“I mustn’t see her!” he whispered to himself.
But no train left the town until early morning, so he resolved to stay in the barn until nearly daylight, and then return to the station.
As he neared the barn, a prolonged sniff caused him to start and crouch near to the ground. Then he remembered. It was Wolf, the dog—the companion, who had accompanied Dora and him on their tramps across the fields, and on their fishing trips to the lake.
“Wolf!” he called softly.
The big collie came bounding through the darkness.
“Still, Wolf! Be still, boy!” he commanded.
To his relief, the dog recognized him and refrained from barking. Two paws pressed against his knee, and the animal whined joyously.
“Go back, Wolf!” he ordered, as he patted and fondled the collie.
Reluctantly, the dog turned toward his kennel, and Reynolds slid open the door of the barn. A restless horse tramped in his stall and a frightened rat scuttled across the floor, as he felt about in the darkness and found the ladder leading upward. Nimbly he ascended to the loft, and, creeping far over to the wall, he stretched himself upon the odorous hay.
He closed his eyes, but sleep would not come. He faintly heard the clock in the farmhouse striking the hour. After an age of sleeplessness, it tinkled again. The smell of the sun-dried grass brought remembrances of his boyhood, and he thought of the plans he and Dora had made for the future. Then he remembered the “good fellows” of the city, with their invitations to “have another,” and their shallow praise. He groaned in despair. He had severed himself from all of the real joys of life, and now he was but a hunted thing—to prowl forever from place to place, in his efforts to escape the relentless hand of the law.