Their plans for a reward, and all the things that had seemed both innocent and practical in the morning, now staggered their minds as manifestations of criminal folly. A new and terrible light seemed to play upon the day's exploits; they had chased a horse belonging to strangers, and it would be said that they deliberately drove him into the stable and there concealed him. They had, in truth, virtually stolen him, and they had stolen food for him. The waning light through the small window above them warned Penrod that his inroads upon the vegetables in his own cellar must soon be discovered. Della, that Nemesis, would seek them in order to prepare them for dinner, and she would find them not. But she would recall his excursion to the cellar, for she had seen him when he came up; and also the truth would be known concerning the loaf of bread. Altogether, Penrod felt that his case was worse than Sam's--until Sam offered a suggestion that roused such horrible possibilities concerning the principal item of their offense that all thought of the smaller indictments disappeared. “Listen, Penrod,” Sam quavered: “What--what if that--what if that ole horse maybe b'longed to a--policeman!” Sam's imagination was not of the comforting kind. “What'd they--do to us, Penrod, if it turned out he was some policeman's horse?” Penrod was able only to shake his head. He did not reply in words; but both boys thenceforth considered it almost inevitable that Whitey had belonged to a policeman, and, in their sense of so ultimate a disaster, they ceased for a time to brood upon what their parents would probably do to them. 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. “I'll say my name's Henry.”