The rest of the crowd had fled.
Without hurrying, Bob stepped into a Ford delivery truck that had been left at the curb, its engine running. Before the crowd which with miraculous suddenness filled the street could stop him, he drove straight down Lee Street, turned into Oglethorpe Avenue, and headed for the country beyond the town. …
Three miles out of town the Ford spluttered, coughed, shook mightily, and stopped. Its gasolene tank was empty. Shoving it into the underbrush on the side of the road, far enough to be out of sight, Bob ran on. If he could only get across country as far as the railroad going North, he might be able to get to Macon, where he could hide. When the excitement died down, he could go on farther North. Perhaps he could eventually reach Canada. He fought his way through brushes, across vast fields of cotton that seemed to have no end. Near midnight he could go no farther. He had eaten nothing since breakfast—he had been too excited over his packing to eat any dinner. Bitterly he thought of the change a few hours had brought forth. Twelve hours before, he had been eagerly planning to leave for school. Now, his sister ruined, he a murderer twice over—fleeing for his life! He hoped that he had killed both of them! It would be too ironical a fate for them to live. … He thought for a moment of what would happen if they caught him. He put the thought away from him. God, that was too terrible! Mustn’t think of that! I’ll lose my nerve. …
What was that? Lord, he must have fallen asleep! What is that? Dogs? Bloodhounds! Great God!
I must get away! How did they get away from bloodhounds in books? That was it! Water!
He’d find a stream and wade in it. Then the damned dogs would lose the scent.
The thought of water reminded him suddenly that he was thirsty—terribly thirsty. God, but his throat was dry! Felt like ten thousand hot needles were sticking in it!
His legs and thighs ached. He dragged them along like a paralysed man. He thought petulantly of a paralysed man he had seen once in Atlanta. What was his name? Bill? No, that wasn’t it. Jim? No, not that either. Some sort of a name like that.
Wonder how Mamie was? Mamie? Who’s Mamie? What had happened to her? He racked his brain to remember. At last he gave it up. No use trying. Old—old—brain don’t work right.
Wonder what’s the matter with it?