“Who’s the man with the husky voice, Uncle David?”
“You’ve seen him.”
“Where?”
“Hiding a shabby car in the cobbled road.”
“But——” Heat throbbed in the boy’s pulse. “But if he’s the one who’s expecting John, what about Rog and the other fellow? Why are they running away from this John?”
“I don’t know—yet,” the doctor said.
Until late that night he smoked his pipe and paced the porch; and Lady, who read the signs of his unrest, gave the short whine of a worried dog and watched him narrowly. In the morning, when he awoke, Joe had already gone to school. Mrs. Morrow said: “Joe seemed frightfully excited about something, David.” Tight lines formed about the sightless eyes. Bringing the lawn-mower from the side of the house, he began to cut the grass. The lawn was a map in his mind—so many paces to every walk and shrub. He was running the mower near the front gate when a droning throb of power roared up the road and stopped with a squeal of brakes.
“Stranger,” said a husky voice, “they tell me there’s a bad, little-traveled hill around here.”
Seconds passed. “Why, yes,” the doctor said slowly. “Three miles on there’s a fork to the right; it takes you to Kill Horse Hill.”
“Pretty steep?”