"Where did you say Bob was going?" came next.
Betty bit her lip.
"I didn't say," she said evenly. "I--I don't think it's fair to ask
me."
"But you know," snapped Mr. Peabody. "I guess I have a right to know
where he's gone. I'm responsible for him. I've got papers that show
it. The poorhouse folks are going to ask me what becomes of him. You
just tell me where he went, and I'll satisfy 'em. I won't follow him
and try to bring him back, Betty. He's too old for that. Making his
bed, he'll have to lie on it. I won't follow him."
The girl twisted her handkerchief nervously. She was not afraid of
the man. That is, she feared no physical violence at his hands, but
he was capable, she knew, of forcing her back to the farm and locking
her up in her room till she furnished him with the required
information. And what harm could it do Bob? It was not likely that
Peabody could find the boy in a large city.
"He won't be made to come back," repeated her tormentor.
"I wish I could believe you," said Betty pitifully.
She looked so young and helpless, trying to pit her girlish
intelligence and strength against the wily miser, that another man
would have been ashamed to press her.
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