Chasing an Iron Horse. Edward Robins
them a chance to dry themselves before the fire,” urged Mrs. Hare.
“Let ’em dry themselves in bed,” muttered the farmer. Whereupon he lighted a candle, and turned towards the door leading to the second story. He was evidently in a great hurry to get his guests up-stairs. Watson, Macgreggor and George looked at one another, as if trying to fathom the cause of their peculiar reception at the hands of Farmer Hare. But each one silently decided that their only cue was to be as polite as possible, and refrain from any altercation with their host.
“After all,” thought Watson, “if we can spend the night here we will be off again at dawn—and then let our surly host take himself to Kamchatka, for all we care.”
Half an hour later Watson and Macgreggor, thoroughly tired out, were sound asleep, in one of the small rooms in the second-story of the house. George, however, lay tossing from side to side on a bed in the adjoining room, directly over the kitchen, with Waggie curled up on the floor close by. The more he thought of the strange behavior of Hare the more uneasy he became. Why had the farmer regarded him and his two companions with such a suspicious glance? Then George suddenly recollected where he had seen that face before. Yes! There could be no mistake. While he, Macgreggor and Watson were dining that day at the village tavern in Jasper, Hare was loitering on the porch of the place. But what of that? The three pretended Kentuckians had told their usual story, and professed their love for the Confederacy, and no one there had seemed to doubt their truthfulness for a moment.
In vain the boy tried to fall asleep. At last, hearing voices in the kitchen, he rose quietly from his bed, stole out of his room, and stealthily walked to the little hallway that led to the kitchen stairway. At the head of the staircase he halted. It was clear that Farmer Hare was saying something emphatic, while his wife was entering a feeble protest. An intuition told the listener that his own party was the subject of discussion. Slowly, cautiously, he crept down the stairway, until he almost touched the closed door which led from it to the kitchen.
“I tell you, woman,” Hare was saying, “these three fellows are spies of some sort, and the sooner we have them under arrest the better.”
“I can’t believe it,” murmured the wife.
“I don’t care whether you believe it or not,” rejoined the husband, in a harsh tone. “Don’t I tell you that when these two men, and the boy, were at the tavern in Jasper to-day, one of the men was recognized by John Henderson. Henderson is a spy in the service of General Beauregard, and was in the camp of General Mitchell only a few days ago, disguised as a trader. There he saw this fellow—the one with the brown beard—and he swears there’s no mistake. But he didn’t tell us in time—the three disappeared. No; there’s mischief of some sort brewing here, and I intend to stop it, if my name’s Hare. We don’t want any spies around here.”
“Spies!” exclaimed the woman. “Then if they are caught within our lines they will be shot!” It seemed as if she shuddered as she spoke.
“Or hanged,” added the farmer, with an unpleasant laugh.
“Let them go,” whispered Mrs. Hare, pleadingly. “I’m just as good a Confederate as you are, Jake, but don’t let us have the blood of these fellows on our hands. That nice little chap with the dog—I would as soon see my own son get into trouble, if I was lucky enough to have one, as that bright-eyed boy. Turn ’em out of the house, Jake, if you suspect them—tell them to go about their business—but don’t set a trap for them.” Her voice became almost plaintive. It was evident that the strangers had made a favorable impression upon Mrs. Hare, and that her woman’s feelings revolted at the idea of betraying them, even though they were the secret enemies of her cause. “I hate war, anyway,” she added. “It sets friend against friend, brother against brother, father against son, state against state. All this trouble between the North and South might have been fixed up without fighting, if there’d been a little more patience on both sides.”
“Don’t preach,” muttered Hare. “There ain’t time for it. Where’s Uncle Daniel?”
The listening George did not know that “Uncle Daniel” was the black farm-hand who helped Hare, but, from the name, he felt sure that a slave was meant.
“Uncle Daniel is out in the barn, I reckon,” answered the wife. “What do you want him for?”
“Wait and see,” rejoined her husband, gruffly. With that enigmatical reply he opened a door leading to the barn, stalked out, and disappeared. There was a half-stifled cry from Mrs. Hare, but she apparently made no effort to detain him. “The Vigilants! Oh! the Vigilants!” she repeated, in accents of distress.
“The sooner we get out of this the better for our necks,” thought George. He had no sense of fear; he was only filled with one consuming idea. He must get word to his two companions, and at once. Just what Hare contemplated in the way of a trap he could not tell, yet it was evident that the sooner Watson and Macgreggor were awakened the more chance would all three have for escaping from whatever fate the farmer had in store for them.
Cautiously George crept back until he was at the door of the room where the two men were heavily sleeping. His first impulse was to rattle at the knob; but he recollected in time that this would make a noise that might bring Mrs. Hare to the scene. He stood still and reflected. It would be foolish to invite the attention of her husband or herself before a plan of action could be decided upon. For nearly five minutes he stood in the hallway, wondering how he could awaken his tired fellows without making a disturbance.
“I wonder if I’m very stupid,” thought the boy. He could hear the kitchen door open, as Hare came back into the house, and began talking to his wife in low tones. He could distinguish but one word. It was “Vigilants!”
At last he gave a faint exclamation of satisfaction, and stole back to his own room. Waggie, who was now lying on the bed, moved uneasily. George lighted a candle and examined the plastered wall which ran between his room and the one where the unconscious Watson and Macgreggor were gently snoring. He knew that the bed on which they slept was directly on the other side of this wall, and he judged that the partition itself was very thin. In this theory he was correct: the laths and their plaster covering formed a mere shell, which was not much thicker than an ordinary wooden partition. Taking a large jack knife from his waistcoat he began to cut into the wall, about four feet from the floor. Before long he had made a small hole, not bigger than the dimensions of a five-dollar gold piece, straight through the plaster. Looking through it, with the aid of his candle, he saw that Watson and Macgreggor were stretched out in bed on the other side, each half-dressed and each sleeping as if there were no such thing in the world as war or danger.
“They deserve a good sleep,” said the boy to himself; “but it can’t be helped, so here goes!” At the same moment he extinguished his candle, pulled it out of the candlestick, and poked it through the hole. He directed it in such a way that it fell squarely on the face of Macgreggor. The man suddenly stopped snoring, turned his body from one side to the other, and then started up in the bed, in a half-sitting posture.
“Macgreggor! Mac!” whispered George; “it’s I, George Knight. Don’t speak loud.”
“Where on earth are you?” asked the newly-awakened sleeper, in a startled voice.
“Never mind where I am,” answered George. “Only don’t make a noise. But get up, light your candle, and open your door for me without letting them hear you down-stairs.”
By this time Watson was awake too, and had jumped to the floor. When Macgreggor lighted his candle, and saw the little hole in the wall, at which appeared one of George’s eyes, he almost gave a cry of surprise; but prudence restrained him, and he merely touched Watson’s arm, pointed to the hole, and then quietly unlocked the door of their room. George soon crept carefully in, and proceeded, in as low a voice as he could command, to tell the two men what he had heard from the kitchen.
“The Vigilants!” whispered Watson. “Why, don’t you know what that means? When we were in Jasper to-day I saw some of them standing around the village grocery store, and even talked