Not having noticed the way by which Peg had
led him to the house, he wandered at first from the straight course.
At length, however, he came to Chestnut Street. He now knew where he
was, and, fifteen minutes later, he was standing before his uncle's
door.
Meanwhile, Abel Crump had been suffering great anxiety on account of
Jack's protracted absence. Several days had now elapsed, and still
he was missing. He had been unable to find the slightest trace of
him.
"I am afraid of the worst," he said to his wife, on the afternoon of
the day on which Jack made his escape. "I think Jack was probably
rash and imprudent, and I fear, poor boy, they may have proved the
death of him."
"Don't you think there is any hope? He may be confined."
"It is possible; but, at all events, I don't think it right to keep
it from Timothy any longer. I've put off writing as long as I could,
hoping Jack would come back, but I don't feel as if I ought to hold
it back any longer. I shall write in the morning, and tell Timothy
to come right on. It'll be a dreadful blow to him."
"Yes, better wait till morning, Abel. Who knows but we may hear from
Jack before that time?"
The baker shook his head.
"If we'd been going to hear, we'd have heard before this time," he
said.
He did not sleep very soundly that night. Anxiety for Jack, and the
thought of his brother's affliction, kept him awake.
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