He had no sooner done this, than the bedlam inside broke loose.  There were yells, and howls, and curses, but Jim did not stop for these.  Dizzied with his effort, enveloped in thick darkness, and the wind which preceded the approaching shower blowing a fierce gale, he was obliged to stop a moment to make sure that he was walking in the right direction.  He saw the lights of the village, and, finding the road, managed to keep on it until he reached the horse, that had become uneasy under the premonitory tumult of the storm.  Lifting Benedict into the wagon as if he had been a child, he wrapped him warmly, and put the boy in behind him, to kneel and see that his father did not fall out.  Then he turned the horse around, and started toward Number Nine.  The horse knew the road, and was furnished with keener vision than the man who drove him.  Jim was aware of this, and letting the reins lie loose upon his back, the animal struck into a long, swinging trot, in prospect of home and another “pail iv oats.”

They had not gone a mile when the gathering tempest came down upon them.  It rained in torrents, the lightning illuminated the whole region again and again, and the thunder cracked, and boomed, and rolled off among the woods and hills, as if the day of doom had come.

The war of the elements harmonized strangely with the weird fancies of the weak man who sat at Jim’s side.  He rode in perfect silence for miles.  At last the wind went down, and the rain settled to a steady fall.

“They were pretty angry about my going,” said he, feebly.

“Yes,” said Jim, “they behaved purty car’less, but I’m too many for ’em.”

“Does Father Abraham know I’m coming?” inquired Benedict.  “Does he expect me to-night?”

“Yes,” responded Jim, “an’ he’d ‘a’ sent afore, but he’s jest wore out with company.  He’s a mighty good-natered man, an’ I tell ’im they take the advantage of ’im.  But I’ve posted ’im ’bout ye, and ye’re all right.”

“Is it very far to the gulf?” inquired Benedict.

“Yes, it’s a good deal of a drive, but when ye git there, ye can jest lay right down in the boat, an’ go to sleep.  I’ll wake ye up, ye know, when we run in.”

The miles slid behind into the darkness, and, at last, the rain subsiding somewhat, Jim stopped, partly to rest his smoking horse, and partly to feed his half-famished companions.  Benedict ate mechanically the food that Jim fished out of the basket with a careful hand, and the boy ate as only boys can eat.  Jim himself was hungry, and nearly finished what they left.

At two o’clock in the morning, they descried Mike Conlin’s light, and in ten minutes the reeking horse and the drenched inmates of the wagon drove up to the door.  Mike was waiting to receive them.

“Mike, this is my particular friend, Benedict.  Take ‘im in, an’ dry ’im.  An’ this is ’is boy.  Toast ’im both sides—­brown.”

A large, pleasant fire was blazing on Mike’s humble hearth, and with sundry cheerful remarks he placed his guests before it, relieving them of their soaked wrappings.  Then he went to the stable, and fed and groomed his horse, and returned eagerly, to chat with Jim, who sat steaming before the fire, as if he had just been lifted from a hot bath.