Examining the time-table he determined upon
Temple Colney--an hour's run. He had been there once with Bill.
But what of this infernal red-headed Pinner boy? In agony wrestling
with the question, George every way ran into the brick wall fact that
there was no method of stopping the vile boy's mouth. The red head
must be left behind to shriek its discovery to par-par. All that could
be done was to delay that shriek as long as possible.
George packed his small hand-bag; placed upon the table money to pay
his bill; lifted the crime-stained basket; addressed the red-headed
Pinner boy:
"Stop that sniffling. Take that bag. You are to come with me. If you
make a sound or try to run away you know what will happen to you. What
did I tell you would happen?"
"Cut me 'ead off."
"Right off. Right off--_slish_! Give me your hand; come on."
Through a side door, avoiding the bar, they passed into the street.
Kind night gave them cloaks of invisibility; no one was about. In a
few minutes they had left the bold village street, were in timid lanes
that turned and twisted hurrying through the high hedges.
Half a mile upon the further side of the station George that morning
had passed a line of haystacks. Now he made for it, skirting the
railway by a considerable distance.
The red-headed Pinner boy, exhausted by the pace of their walk, not
unnaturally nervous, spoke for the first time: "Ain't you going to the
station, mister?"
"Station? Certainly not.
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