He strode from the store and started down the sandy road at a brisk run.

Miserable forebodings of an impending tragedy leaped up within him, and the miles were many that lay between him and the Hill.
"He'll just naturally bust the face off the fellow Bladen sends!" thought Crenshaw, staring after his friend.
That run of Bob Yancy's was destined to become a classic in the annals of the neighborhood.

Ordinarily a man walking briskly might cover the distance between the Cross Roads and the Hill in two hours.

He accomplished it in less than an hour, and before he reached the branch that flowed a full quarter of a mile from his cabin he was shouting Hannibal's name as he ran.

Then as he breasted the slope he came within sight of a little group in his own dooryard.