But one thing now puzzled Joe Wainsworth. He had lost his revolver and did
not know how he was to manage his own death. "I must do it some way," he
thought, when at last, after nearly three hours steady plodding and hiding
in fields to avoid the teams going along the road he got to the beech
forest. He went to sit under a tree near the place where he had so often
sat through quiet Sunday afternoons with his wife beside him. "I'll rest a
little and then I'll think how I can do it," he thought wearily, holding
his head in his hands. "I mustn't go to sleep. If they find me they'll hurt
me. They'll hurt me before I have a chance to kill myself. They'll hurt me
before I have a chance to kill myself," he repeated, over and over, holding
his head in his hands and rocking gently back and forth.
CHAPTER XXII
The car driven by Tom Butterworth stopped at a town, and Tom got out to
fill his pockets with cigars and incidentally to enjoy the wonder and
admiration of the citizens. He was in an exalted mood and words flowed from
him. As the motor under its hood purred, so the brain under the graying old
head purred and threw forth words. He talked to the idlers before the drug
stores in the towns and, when the car started again and they were out in
the open country, his voice, pitched in a high key to make itself heard
above the purring engine, became shrill. Having struck the shrill tone of
the new age the voice went on and on.
Pages:
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378