The penalty for
stealing a policeman's horse would be only a step short of
capital, they were sure. They would not be hanged; but vague,
looming sketches of something called the penitentiary began to
flicker before them.
It grew darker in the cellar, so that finally they could not see
each other.
"I guess they're huntin' for us by now," Sam said huskily. "I
don't--I don't like it much down here, Penrod."
Penrod's hoarse whisper came from the profound gloom: "Well, who
ever said you did?"
"Well--" Sam paused; then he said plaintively, "I wish we'd never
SEEN that dern ole horse."
"It was every bit his fault," said Penrod. "We didn't do
anything. If he hadn't come stickin' his ole head in our stable,
it'd never happened at all. Ole fool!" He rose. "I'm goin' to get
out of here; I guess I've stood about enough for one day."
"Where--where you goin', Penrod? You aren't goin' HOME, are you?"
"No; I'm not! What you take me for? You think I'm crazy?"
"Well, where CAN we go?"
How far Penrod's desperation actually would have led him is
doubtful; but he made this statement: "I don't know where YOU'RE
goin', but I'M goin' to walk straight out in the country till I
come to a farmhouse and say my name's George and live there!"
"I'll do it, too," Sam whispered eagerly.
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