"Too late," he said, turning to Bridge. "Here they come!"
The woman brushed by them and peered up the road.
"Yes," she said, "it must be them. Lordy! What'll we do?"
"I'll duck out the back way, that's what I'll do," said Billy.
"It wouldn't do a mite of good," said Mrs. Shorter, with a
shake of her head. "They'll telephone every farmer within
twenty mile of here in every direction, an' they'll get you sure.
Wait! I got a scheme. Come with me," and she turned and
bustled through the little parlor, out of a doorway into something
that was half hall and half storeroom. There was a
flight of stairs leading to the upper story, and she waddled up
them as fast as her legs would carry her, motioning the two
men to follow her.
In a rear room was a trapdoor in the ceiling.
"Drag that commode under this," she told them. "Then
climb into the attic, and close the trapdoor. They won't never
find you there."
Billy pulled the ancient article of furniture beneath the
opening, and in another moment the two men were in the
stuffy atmosphere of the unventilated loft. Beneath them
they heard Mrs. Shorter dragging the commode back to its
accustomed place, and then the sound of her footsteps descending
the stair.
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