vicinity of the spine just above the waistline.
"We'll have it all right in a minute, Mr. Murchison. Just let me get this shirt up a bit."
Then began a laughable performance. Hayward started to work the red flannel, ague-proof shirt up over the old man's skinny back. He pushed it all the way up to the shoulder blades; then he let it slip back.
"It won't stay up," he said. "Guess we'd better take it off."
And before his guard could object, he jerked the tough cloth up over the shoulders so that it pinioned the arms tightly.
"Hyar, what th'—"
But the old postmaster's complaint was uttered uselessly. Hayward had the keys from the warden's belt, was out of the cell, and was unbolting the outside door.
"Run for your life," he fairly screamed. "The corpse is up!"
But poor old Murchison could not run; he was too busy trying to extricate his head and arms from the thick folds of the red flannel shirt. In his frantic struggles he stumbled all over the cell. He knocked over and extinguished the kerosene lamp, slipped on the oily floor, and fell against the cell door, the clammy bars of which struck a horrid chill to his bare back. With a wild lurch, he plunged out into the room of dread. A squawk of pure terror strained his throat, and he thrashed about on the floor in a clawing scramble.
The shirt, buttoned tightly around his throat, was choking him. His breath came in stertorous gasps. To make matters worse, there came from the night outside such groans and wails and blood-curdling howls as only a warlock, or a banshee, or a hant, or a mischievous young man could make.
With a superhuman effort, the old man finally freed his head from its shameful bonds. But horrors! In his last jerk he struck the trestle which supported, the table and brought the corpse down across his bare body.
Hayward, by this time, was a hundreds yards from the calaboose, securely hidden in a clump of bushes; it would have been difficult to find him. But the deputy jailer was not concerned with the whereabouts of his prisoner that had been. His one thought was to get away from the grisly specter that was wrestling with him. He broke from the jail and fled for the village, the red badge of his undoing fluttering in the breeze of his going.
The escaped prisoner watched the departure of his guard from a point of vantage, and he roared with laughter at the old fellow's antics. As soon as Murchison was out of sight, the jail breaker started along the Pine Lake road for Lamont House.
Only one person other than Hayward and Murchison was a witness to the escape. Bill Joy, who was just driving his mule team home from his father's field, where he had been picking corn, caught a good view of the supposed murderer as he left the calaboose. With a shriek, Bill left the wagon and made across lots for his own back door.
Long before Postmaster Blaine Murchison had dragged his weary feet back to the constable's house, the entire village of Crawford knew that "that murderin' young upstart of adoctor had bruk loose from jail."
CHAPTER TEN
THE BREATHING BLACK
THE matter of employing a housekeeper settled, Jarrell announced his intention of going over to Lamont House alone.
"I want to find out whether Weems has had the rooms put in order," he said. "While I'm gone, you girls can get acquainted. I'll not be long; I'll just look the place over, and if every-
