“Then you let 'im go,” Hoag prompted. “Hurry up, I don't want to stay here all night.”
“Yes; some o' the boys was in for givin' the poor devil a sound lashin'; but he really looked like he wasn't strong enough to stand up under it, an' we didn't dare disable 'im, so when we explained to 'im that he was free if he'd get clean out o' the country an' hold his tongue, he was the funniest lookin' sight you ever saw. By gum, he actually tried to kiss our hands; he crawled about on his knees in the road, cryin' an' whimperin' an' beggin' the Lord to bless us. It actually unstrung some o' the boys—looked like they hardly knowed what to do or say. The tramp started off, lookin' back over his shoulder like he was afraid somebody would shoot, an' when he got to the top o' the rise he broke into a run an' he hit the grit like a scared rabbit.”
Trawley laughed impulsively; but no sign of amusement escaped Hoag. His eyes were fixed on a horse and buggy down the road.
“That must be the doctor,” he said. “You go on to town.”
“All right, all right, Cap,” was the reply. “I just thought I'd stop by an' let you know how it come out. Good night.”
“Good night,” Hoag gloomily echoed, and he went back to the gate, where he stood waiting for the doctor.
The physician was a man past middle age, full-bearded, iron-gray, and stockily built. He got out of his buggy with the deliberation of his profession.
“How is the child now?” he asked, as he hitched his horse to the fence.
“I don't know, Doc; you'd better hurry in an' look at 'im. You think he is dangerous, don't you?”
“I thought so when I saw 'im; but I can't tell sure yet. Couldn't get here a bit sooner—tried my best, but couldn't.”