Rupe paused but for an extremely condensed survey of the horrible advance of the brothers, and then, uttering a blood-curdled scream of fear, ran out of the stable and up the alley at a speed he had never before attained, so that even Dan had hard work to keep within barking distance.  And a ’cross-shoulder glance, at the corner, revealing Verman and Herman in pursuit, the latter waving his scythe overhead, Mr. Collins slackened not his gait, but, rather, out of great anguish, increased it; the while a rapidly developing purpose became firm in his mind—­and ever after so remained—­not only to refrain from visiting that neighbourhood again, but never by any chance to come within a mile of it.

From the alley door, Penrod and Sam watched the flight, and were without words.  When the pursuit rounded the corner, the two looked wanly at each other, but neither spoke until the return of the brothers from the chase.

Herman and Verman came back, laughing and chuckling.

“Hiyi!” cackled Herman to Verman, as they came, “See ’at ole boy run!”

“Who-ee!” Verman shouted in ecstasy.

“Nev’ did see boy run so fas’!” Herman continued, tossing the scythe into the wheelbarrow.  “I bet he home in bed by viss time!”

Verman roared with delight, appearing to be wholly unconscious that the lids of his right eye were swollen shut and that his attire, not too finical before the struggle, now entitled him to unquestioned rank as a sansculotte.  Herman was a similar ruin, and gave as little heed to his condition.

Penrod looked dazedly from Herman to Verman and back again.  So did Sam Williams.

“Herman,” said Penrod, in a weak voice, “you wouldn’t honest of cut his gizzard out, would you?”

“Who?  Me?  I don’ know.  He mighty mean ole boy!” Herman shook his head gravely, and then, observing that Verman was again convulsed with unctuous merriment, joined laughter with his brother.  “Sho’!  I guess I uz dess talkin’ whens I said ’at!  Reckon he thought I meant it, f’m de way he tuck an’ run.  Hiyi!  Reckon he thought ole Herman bad man!  No, suh!  I uz dess talkin’, ‘cause I nev’ would cut NObody!  I ain’ tryin’ git in no jail—­no, suh!”

Penrod looked at the scythe:  he looked at Herman.  He looked at the lawn-mower, and he looked at Verman.  Then he looked out in the yard at the rake.  So did Sam Williams.

“Come on, Verman,” said Herman.  “We ain’ go’ ‘at stove-wood f’ supper yit.”

Giggling reminiscently, the brothers disappeared leaving silence behind them in the carriage-house.  Penrod and Sam retired slowly into the shadowy interior, each glancing, now and then, with a preoccupied air, at the open, empty doorway where the late afternoon sunshine was growing ruddy.  At intervals one or the other scraped the floor reflectively with the side of his shoe.  Finally, still without either having made any effort at conversation, they went out into the yard and stood, continuing their silence.