And Brian had lived in a corncrib at seven cents a day.

Kenny whipped out his notebook.
"One day in a corncrib:" he wrote grimly.

"Twenty-five dollars!" Brian and he were maintaining their customary scale of contrast.
The highway he abandoned almost at once and struck off through the forest, reflecting with a frown that Silas would doubtless look up the marshal and demand a warrant for his arrest.

Fate was at his heels again obsessed by a mania for disturbing the peace of mind he craved.
He might even be hunted by a village posse.

And bloodhounds! The adventurous side of this rather pleased him.