Farmer Craddock mounted quickly to the seat, picked up the reins and turned his horse's head towards the gate which Peter went to unfasten. As the wagon turned about Stephen, from his seat in the rear, faced the shuttered window of the loft. He knew he was going away--leaving Mollie and the others, perhaps never to see them again! But he was too ill, too dazed, too troubled by the roaring and surging, and pressure of his head to think about it. He just sat still and watched the farm panorama pass slowly by him as the wheels of the wagon revolved. On the left, the bog. To the right, the house, with Maria sitting, listless, on the doorstep, Ambrose near by, tormenting the dog. In the distance, the hated truck-patch and hog-pen. And straight before him, as he rode backwards from the place was that shuttered window behind which Mollie and the other children were watching, and before which he and Mollie had knelt so many nights, mingling their childish tears and praying for someone to come and take them away. Now he was going and Mollie was still there--in that prison, behind those rough boards, looking out at him and wondering, perhaps, why he did not take her with him. He wanted to send her some word, to call to her, to wave his hand but he felt powerless, inert, unable to move hand or foot. His head ached. Poor little Splutters could not think. But what was that his eyes beheld--there, at that shuttered window? Oh, yes, he knew, now. It was a hand--Mollie's hand! She saw him, then. She understood. She was waving to him. Another hand! Still another. Lots of hands. Why, all the children were there! Mollie had called them. She was telling them all to wave--to him--to Splutters,--to tell him good-by! How they fluttered--those hands. Like birds--little, white birds! They were growing smaller now--farther away. But he could still see them. The wagon was passing through the gate. He strained his eyes for a farewell look. Yes, they were still there--waving--the little birds--waving--waving-- Something--something was shutting them from him. He could no longer see them. They were gone. Everything was black before him-- The ogre closed the gate! Splutters lay unconscious beside the shoat, in the bottom of the wagon. CHAPTER XIV THE KIDNAPPING "If the goodman of the house had known in what watch the thief would come, he would have watched and would not have suffered his home to be broken up."--Matt. xxiv, 43 Bill Swazey, the gentleman who wore a plaid suit, brilliant stick pin and sneakers was not a detective. Had anyone mistaken him for one he would have considered himself insulted. In fact, he loathed the word, detective. Yet the report which Mr. Swazey submitted to his superior, registered at the Mansion House as "W. J. Bailey, Phila.," might easily have been mistaken for the report of an operative to his chief. It read: "Re: Wayne. (Harris A.)--BZ. reports: