And instantly the hand of the man in the wagon reached forward, but he was not within reaching distance, and at the same instant Ambrose, seizing hold of his passenger, made a flying leap from the gig. Then catching the girl's hand in his he ran with her, ran gloriously, hardly conscious of the light figure being drawn along. All day his long legs had been cramped with sitting still; this, then, was the thing that he had most desired: leaping ditches, tearing across ploughed fields to the woods ahead, with the frightened girl panting but keeping close to his side, and behind them the enraged, shouting figure of officialdom. Once in the woods the hiding was easy; twisting in and out among the trees not only did Ambrose lose his pursuer, but himself. For if he had counted on anything, which he probably had not, it was that the man would not run after them for any length of time, leaving his fast horse to stand in the road. Finally, the girl and boy both dropped down on the ground. The long May twilight was past, still they could see the outlines of each other's forms, and Ambrose could hear the beating of the girl's heart against her frock like the fluttering of an imprisoned moth. He could not help reassuring her. "You're safe, sis, don't worry," he drawled. "Keep still and maybe in a minute I'll find some water." But she would not let him leave her, and tagged along until they finally discovered a little stream. Then, as Ambrose had some stale bread in his pocket, together they feasted for a short time, when, as the moon of the night before had come out again a trifle larger, Ambrose decided to inquire concerning his companion's plans. She now seemed entirely peaceful, and, though rested, had made no mention of moving along. However, for some time longer he watched her with that solemn stare of his. She was chattering gayly enough about nothing ("there was never a time when a female wouldn't be able to talk," he thought), but by and by she _must_ be interrupted. "I wonder now," he said when there was no longer any sound either of fear or fatigue in her voice, "if you would kindly be tellin' me which way you would like to be goin' and what friends you was plannin' to run to to-night when I picked you up back on the road? I ain't to say acquainted with this part of the country, but I reckon I can help to find them. It's gettin' late and I ain't easy in my mind about Liza." For some absurd reason he felt himself placed upon the defensive. The girl was shaking her head. "I ain't no friend but you." Ambrose whistled. "Well, bein's as I am what one might call a recently adopted friend, maybe you'll so much as tell me where you're thinkin' of spendin' the night." "I ain't thinkin'," was the answer, and at this Ambrose swore softly, though you may count on his having sworn under his breath.