The judge
considered making a rope of his bedding and lowering himself to
the ground by means of it, he remembered to have read of captives
in that interesting French prison, the Bastille, who did this.
However, an equally ingenious but much more simple use for his
bedding occurred to him; it would form a soft and yielding
substance on which to alight. He gathered it up into his arms,
feather-tick and all, and pushed it through the window, then he
wriggled out across the ledge, feet first, and lowering himself
to the full length of his arms, dropped.
He landed squarely on the rolled-up bed with a jar that shook him
to his center. Almost gaily he snatched up a quilt, draping it
about him after the manner of a Roman, toga, and thus lightly
habited, started across Mr. Pegloe's truck-patch, his one thought
Boggs' and the sun. It would have served no purpose to have gone
home, since his entire wardrobe, except for the shirt on his
back, was in the tavern-keeper's possession, besides he had not a
moment to lose, for the sun was peeping at him over the horizon.
Unobserved he gained the edge of the town and the highroad that
led past Boggs' and stole a fearful glance over his shoulder.
The sun was clear of the treetops, he could even feel the
lifeless dust grow warm beneath his feet; and wrapping the quilt
closer about him he broke into a labored run.
Some twenty minutes later Boggs' came in sight. He experienced a
moment of doubt--suppose Fentress had been there and gone! It
was a hideous thought and the judge groaned.
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