"
Over at the break in the woods a man had appeared from the direction of
Millville. He was waving a hand, and then placing it to his mouth as
though hailing someone, probably the Tollivers at the camp.
Then he turned straight around. If Bart could read anything at that
distance, he could certainly trace that the man was looking fixedly at
the red wagon, and the white horse, and himself.
If it was Lem Wacker--and Bart believed that it was--just one thing was
in order: to get that trunk to some town, to some station, to some
friendly farmhouse, in hiding anywhere, before the pursuit, sure to
follow, was started.
Bart ran on, with a last glance at the lone distant figure. He could not
afford to wait to see if the Tollivers joined it. Every minute was
precious.
"Where is the horse?" exclaimed Bart.
Dobbin had "got up." While Bart was surveying the landscape, the old
animal had plodded on, and was now out of sight.
Bart ran along the road. It turned between two walls of slate. Then came
the open again. Here the road descended somewhat. The horse stood at a
halt. He had run easily a few rods, one wheel had struck a deep rut, and
the wagon had broken down.
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