Much of Mr. Wilde’s bantering comment on the train had related to these same good turns. He had referred to the heroic act of mowing a neighbor’s lawn or of pursuing some gentleman’s recreant hat in a wind-storm. Well, here was the sort of good turn that would open his eyes. To return him his wallet. Westy did not believe that he could do this. He seemed, by a miracle of good luck, to have attained a point of safety. Flight was possible now, and he had an idea which he thought would baffle pursuit. He had thought cautiously to take three or four long strides then run as fast as he could and rejoin his friends before one or other of them shouted to him.
Now the thought of a higher obligation deterred him, and he paused, gazing wistfully, yet fearfully, through the darkness in the direction where he had thought safety and permanent escape awaited him. Then he glanced fearfully back at the tall black tree trunk, and considered that little distance he had achieved by his skill and deathlike silence.
That little distance represented more effort, certainly more strain, than would have been required to walk half a dozen miles. It seemed like a little bank account, a treasury of hard-earned safety. And now he was to squander this in a foolhardy attempt. He almost wished that a shout from his friends would take the matter out of his hands and give him an excuse for flight. Then he was ashamed of that thought.
With hesitating, reluctant step he drew nearer to the tree, cautiously, silently, pausing with each step to listen. He placed his hand over his heart as if to muffle its beating; it seemed as if the whole country could hear the thumping in his breast. In that little area surrounding the tree, Westy Martin was living a whole life. So intense was his concentration, so taut his nerves, that there seemed nothing, no interests, no world, outside this little ............