“Wait!” commanded the minister. There was a new look, one of decision, upon his face. “Heaven forgive me,” he said, “if I am not doing right—but I cannot send a man to the gallows!”

He took a step towards the door leading to the entry.

“Not a word, Cynthia,” he ordered. He opened a large closet, filled with groceries and preserving jars, quickly pushed George and Watson into it, and closed the door.

“Now, Rachel,” he said, “let the men in.” The girl departed. Within the space of a minute nearly a dozen neighbors, all of them carrying muskets, trooped into the kitchen. They were sturdy planters, and they looked wet and out of humor.

“Well, Dominie,” exclaimed one of them, walking up to the fire and warming his hands, “you can thank your stars you’re not out a mean night like this. Have you heard about the big engine steal?”

“Friend Jason has written me about it,” replied Mr. Buckley.

“Why, it was the most daring thing I ever heard tell on,” cried another of the party. “A lot of Yankees actually seized Fuller’s train when he was eating his breakfast at Big Shanty, and ran it almost to Chattanooga. They had pluck, that’s certain!”

“We’re not here to praise their pluck,” interrupted another man. “We are here to find out if any of ’em have been seen around your place. We’ve been scouring the country for two hours, but there’s no trace of any of ’em so far—not even of the man with the boy and the dog, as Jason’s son said he saw.”

“Why didn’t Jason’s son tackle the fellows?” asked a voice.

“Pooh,” said the man at the fireplace; “Jason’s son ain’t no ’count. All he’s fit for is to dance with the girls. It’s well our army doesn’t depend on such milksops as him. He would run away from a mosquito—and cry about it afterwards!”

“You haven’t seen any one suspicious about here, have you, parson?” asked a farmer.

The minister hesitated. He had never told a deliberate falsehood in his life. Was he to begin now?

“Seen no suspicious characters?” echoed the man at the fireplace. “No boy with a dog?”

The tongue of the good clergyman seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth. He could see the eagle glance of Miss Cynthia fixed upon him. Just then Waggie, who had been sniffing at the closet door, returned to the fireplace.

“Why, since when have you started to keep dogs, parson?” asked the last speaker.

The minister had an inspiration.

“That dog walked in here this evening,” he said. “I believe him to be the dog of the boy you speak of.” He spoke truth, but he had evaded answering the leading question.

“Great George!” cried the man at the fireplace. “Then some of the spies are in the neighborhood yet!” There were shouts of assent from his companions.

“When did the dog stray in?” was asked.

“More than an hour ago,” said Mr. Buckley.

“Come, let’s try another hunt!” called out a young planter. The men were out of the house the next minute, separating into groups of two and three to scour the countryside. The lights of their lanterns, which had shone out in the rain like will-o’-the-wisps, grew dimmer and dimmer, and finally disappeared.

As the front door closed the minister sat down near the table, and buried his face in his hands.

“I wonder if I did wrong,” he said, almost to himself. “But I could not take a life—and that is what it would have been if I had given them up.”

“Pa, you’re too soft-hearted for this world,” snapped Miss Cynthia.

Mrs. Buckley looked at her daughter reprovingly.

“Your father is a minister of the gospel,” she said solemnly, “and he has shown that he can do good even to his enemies.”

Mr. Buckley arose, and listened to the sound of the retreating neighbors. Then he opened the door of the closet. Watson and George jumped out joyfully, half smothered though they were, and began to overwhelm the old man with thanks for their deliverance.

He drew himself up, however, and refused their proffered hand shakes. There was a stern look on his usually gentle face.

“I may have saved your necks,” he said, “because I would sacrifice no human life voluntarily, but I do not forget that you are enemies who have entered the South to do us all the harm you can.”

“Come,” said Watson, “it’s a mere difference of opinion. I don’t care what happens, George and I will never be anything else than your best friends!”

“That is true,” cried George; “you can’t call us enemies!”

The manner of the minister softened visibly; even Miss Cynthia looked less aggressive than before.

“Well, we won’t discuss politics,” answered Mr. Buckley. “You have as much right to your opinions as I have to mine. But I think I have done all I could be expected to do for you. Here, take this key, which unlocks the door of my barn, and crawl up into the hayloft where you can spend the night. If you are there, however, when I come to feed the horse, at seven o’clock to-morrow morning, I will not consider it necessary to keep silent to my neighbors.”

“Never fear,” said Watson, in genial tones; “we’ll be away by daylight. Good-bye, and God bless you. You have done something to-night that will earn our everlasting gratitude, little as that means. Some day this wretched war will be over—and then I hope to have the honor of shaking you by the hand, and calling you my friend.”

Watson and George were soon safely ensconced for the night in the minister’s hayloft, with Waggie slumbering peacefully on top of a mound of straw.

“I think we are more comfortable than our pursuers who are running around the country,” said George. He was stretched out next to Watson on the hay, and over him was an old horse-blanket.

“Thanks to dear old Buckley,” answered Watson. “He is a real Southerner—generous and kind of heart. Ah, George, it’s a shame that the Americans of one section can’t be friends with the Americans of the other section.”

Then they went to sleep, and passed as dreamless and refreshing a night as if there were no dangers for the morrow. At the break of day they were up again, and out of the barn, after leaving the key in the door.

“I feel like a general who has no plan of campaign whatever,” observed Watson, as he gazed at the minister’s residence, in the uncanny morning light, and saw that no one had as yet arisen.

“I guess the campaign will have to develop itself,” answered George. The night’s rest, and the good supper before it, had made a new boy of him. Twelve hours previously he had been exhausted; now he felt in the mood to undergo anything.

The two walked out of the garden, accompanied by Waggie, and so on until they reached an open field. Here they sat down, on the limb of a dead and stricken tree, and discussed what they were to do.

“We don’t know,” mused Watson, “whether any of our party have been caught or not. But one thing is as certain as sunrise. Just as soon as the morning is well advanced the pursuers will begin their work again, and they will have all the advantage—you and I all the disadvantage.”

“The men will be on horseback, too,” added George, “while we will be on foot. We must remember that.”

“Jove,” cried Watson, giving his knee a vigorous slap. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Out with it,” said George.

“Listen,” went on his friend. “Here is the situation. If we try to push to the westward, to join Mitchell’s forces, in broad daylight, or even at night, we are pretty sure to be captured if we try to palm ourselves off as Kentucky Southerners. If we hide in the woods, and keep away from people, we will simply starve to death—and that won’t be much of an improvement. That Kentucky story won’t work now; it has been used too much as it is. Therefore, if we are to escape arrest, we must change our characters.”

“Change our characters?” repeated George, in wonderment.

“Exactly. Suppose that we boldly move through the country as two professional beggars, and thus gradually edge our way to the westward, without appearing to do so. You can sing negro songs, can’t you?”

“Yes; and other songs, too.”

“That’s good. And Waggie has some tricks, hasn’t he?”

“He can play dead dog—and say his prayers—and howl when I sing—and do some other tricks.”

“Then I’ve got the whole scheme in my mind,” said Watson, with enthusiasm. “Let me play a blind man, with you as my leader. I think I can fix my eyes in the right way. We can go from farm to farm, from house to house, begging a meal, and you can sing, and put the dog through his tricks. People are not apt to ask the previous history of beggars—nor do I think any one will be likely to connect us with the train-robbers.”

George clapped his hands.

“That’s fine!” he said. There was a novelty about the proposed plan that strongly appealed to his spirit of adventure.

Watson’s face suddenly clouded.

“Come to think of it,” he observed, “the combination of a man, a boy and a dog will be rather suspicious, even under our new disguise. Remember Farmer Jason’s letter last night.”

“That’s all very well,” retorted George, who had fallen in love with the beggar scheme, “but if we get away from this particular neighborhood the people won’t have heard anything about a dog or a boy. They will only know that some Northern spies are at large—and they won’t be suspicious of a blind man and his friends.”

“I reckon you’re right,” said Watson, after a little thought. “Let us get away from here, before it grows lighter, and put the neighbors behind us.”

The man and boy, and the telltale dog, jumped to their feet.

“Good-bye, Mr. Buckley,” murmured Watson, as he took a last look at the minister’s house, “and heaven bless you for one of the best men that ever lived!”

They were hurrying on the next moment, nor did they stop until they had put six or seven miles between themselves and the Buckley home. The sun, directly away from which they had been moving, was now shining brightly in the heavens, as it looked down benevolently upon the well-soaked earth. They had now reached a plantation of some two hundred acres or more, in the centre of which was a low, long brick house with a white portico in front. They quickly passed from the roadway into the place, and moved up an avenue of magnolia trees. When they reached the portico a lazy looking negro came shuffling out of the front door. He gazed, in a supercilious fashion, at the two whites and the dog.

“Wha’ foah you fellows gwine come heh foah?” he demanded, in a rich, pleasant voice, but with an unwelcome scowl upon his face.

“We just want a little breakfast,” answered Watson. He was holding the boy’s arm, and looked the picture of a blind mendicant.

The darky gave them a scornful glance. “Git away from heh, yoh white trash,” he commanded. “We doan want no beggars ’round heh!”

Watson was about to flare up angrily, at the impudent tone of this order, but when he thought of the wretched appearance which he and George presented he was not surprised at the coolness of their reception. For not only were their clothes remarkable to look upon, but they were without hats. Even Waggie seemed a bedraggled little vagabond.

But George rose valiantly to the occasion. He began to sing “Old Folks at Home,” in a clear sweet voice, and, when he had finished, he gave a spirited rendition of “Dixie.” When “Dixie” was over he made a signal to Waggie, who walked up and down the pathway on his hind legs with a comical air of pride.

The expression of the pompous negro had undergone a great change. His black face was wreathed in smiles; his eyes glistened with delight; his large white teeth shone in the morning light like so many miniature tombstones.

“Ya! ya! ya!” he laughed. “Doan go way. Ya! ya! Look at de dog! Ho! ho!”

He reentered the house, but was soon back on the portico. With him came a handsome middle-aged man, evidently the master of the house, and a troop of children. They were seven in all, four girls and three boys, and they ranged in ages all the way from five to seventeen years.

No sooner did he see them than George began another song—“Nicodemus, the Slave.” This he followed by “Massa’s in the cold, cold ground.” As he ended the second number the children clapped their hands, and the master of the house shouted “Bravo!” Then the boy proceeded to put Waggie through his tricks. The dog rolled over and lay flat on the ground, with his paws in the air as if he were quite dead; then at a signal from his master he sprang to his feet and began to dance. He also performed many other clever tricks that sent the children into an ecstasy of delight. Watson nearly forgot his rÔle of blind man, more than once, in his desire to see the accomplishments of the terrier. But he saved himself just in time, and contrived to impart to his usually keen eyes a dull, staring expression.

By the time Waggie had given his last trick the young people had left the portico and were crowding around him with many terms of endearment. One of them, seizing the tiny animal in her arms, ran with him into the house, where he must have been given a most generous meal, for he could eat nothing more for the next twenty-four hours.

The handsome man came off the portico and looked at the two supposed beggars with an expression of sympathy.

“You have a nice voice, my boy,” he said, turning to George. “Can’t you make better use of it than this? Why don’t you join the army, and sing to the soldiers?”

George might have answered that he already belonged to one army, and did not feel like joining another, but he naturally thought he had better not mention this. He evaded the question, and asked if he and the “blind man” might have some breakfast.

“That you can!” said the master, very cordially. “Here, Pompey, take these fellows around to the kitchen and tell Black Dinah to give them a good meal. And when they are through bring them into my study. I want the boy to sing some more.”

The black man with the white teeth escorted the strangers to the kitchen of the mansion, where an ebony cook treated them to a typical southern feast. It was well that Black Dinah had no unusual powers of reasoning or perception, for the beggars forgot, more than once, to keep up their assumed rÔles. Watson found no difficulty in eating, despite his supposed infirmity, and George came within an inch of presenting a Confederate bill to Madame Dinah. But he suddenly reflected that paupers were not supposed to “tip” servants, and he stuffed the money back into his trousers pocket.

When they had finished Pompey escorted them to the study of the master of the house. It was a large room, filled with books and family portraits, and in it were assembled the host (Mr. Carter Peyton) and his children. The latter were still engaged in petting Waggie, who began to look a trifle bored. From the manner in which they ruled the house it was plain that their father was a widower. At the request of Mr. Peyton, George sang his whole repertoire of melodies, and the dog once more repeated his tricks. Watson was given a seat in one corner of the study. “It’s time we were off,” he thought.

As Waggie finished his performance Watson rose, and stretched out his hand towards George.

“Let’s be going,” he said.

“All right,” answered George. He was about to say good-bye, and lead his companion to the door, when a turbaned negress entered the room.

“Massa Peyton, Massa Charles Jason done ride oveh heh ta see you.”

“Is he here now?” asked Mr. Peyton. “Then show him in. I wonder what’s the matter? It is not often that Jason gets this far away from home.” The girl retired.

Charles Jason! Where had the two Northerners heard that name? Then it flashed upon them almost at the same instant. Charles Jason was the name of the farmer who had warned Mr. Buckley about them. If he saw them both, and in company with the dog, they would be under suspicion at once.

George drew nearer to Watson and whispered one word: “Danger!” He picked up Waggie and put him in his pocket.

“We must be going,” reiterated Watson, moving towards the door with unusual celerity for a blind man who had found himself in an unfamiliar apartment.

“Don’t go yet,” urged Mr. Peyton, seeking to detain the supposed vagabonds; “I want Mr. Jason to hear some of these plantation songs. I’ll pay you well for your trouble, my boy—and you can take away all the food you want.”

“I’m sorry,” began George, “but——”

As the last word was uttered Farmer Charles Jason was ushered into the study. He was a chubby little man of fifty or fifty-five, with red hair, red face and a body which suggested the figure of a plump sparrow—a kindly man, no doubt, in the ordinary course of events, but the last person on earth that the two fugitives wanted to see.

“Well, this is a surprise,” said the master of the house, very cordially. “It’s not often you favor us with a visit as far down the highway as this.”

“When a fellow has gout as much as I have nowadays,” returned Jason, “he doesn’t get away from home a great deal. But something important made me come out to-day.”

“Nothing wrong, I hope?” asked Mr. Peyton.

George took hold of Watson’s left hand, and edged towards the open door. But Mr. Peyton, not waiting for Jason to answer his question, leaped forward and barred the way.

“You fellows must not go until Mr. Jason has heard those negro melodies.”

Owing to the number of people in the room (for all the children were there), Jason had not singled out the Northerners for any attention. But now he naturally looked at them. There was nothing suspicious in his glance; it was merely good-natured and patronizing.

“Yes, don’t go,” cried one of the children, a pretty little girl of ten or eleven. “Show Mr. Jason how the doggie can say his prayers.” She hauled Waggie from George’s coat, and held him in front of the farmer. George seized Waggie and returned him to his pocket. There was an angry flush on the boy’s face. He had no kind feelings for pretty Miss Peyton.

Jason’s expression underwent a complete transformation when he saw the dog. An idea seemed to strike him with an unexpected but irresistible force. The sight of the dog had changed the whole current of his thoughts. He stared first at Watson, and then at George, with a frown that grew deeper and deeper. Then he turned to Mr. Peyton.

“I came over to tell you about the Yankee spies who are loose in the county,” he cried quickly, in excited tones. “One of them was a boy with a dog. My son saw them—and I believe this to be the lad. I——”

The farmer got no further.

“Come, George!” suddenly shouted Watson.

At the back of the study there was a large glass door leading out to the rear porch of the house. He ran to this, found that it would not open, and so deliberately hit some of the panes a great blow with his foot.

Crash! The glass flew here and there in a hundred pieces. The next moment the ex-blind man had pushed through the ragged edges of the remaining glass, and was scurrying across a garden at the back of the house. After him tore George. In going through the door he had cut his cheek on one of the projecting splinters, but in the excitement he was quite unconscious of the fact. The children and their father stood looking at Jason in a dazed, enquiring way. They had not heard of the locomotive chase; they knew nothing of Northern spies; they did not understand that the farmer had suddenly jumped at a very correct but startling conclusion.

“After them!” shouted Jason. “They are spies!”

By this time the whole house was in an uproar. Most of the children were in tears (being frightened out of their wits at the mention of terrible spies), and the servants were running to and fro wringing their hands helplessly, without understanding exactly what had happened. Jason tore to the broken door, broke off some more glass with the end of the riding whip he held in his hand, and was quickly past this bristling barrier and out on the back porch. Mr. Peyton was behind him.

At the end of the garden, nearly a hundred yards away, was an old-fashioned hedge of box, which had reached, in the course of many years, a height of twelve feet or more. A little distance beyond this box was a wood of pine-trees. As Jason reached the porch he could see the two Northerners fairly squeeze their way through the hedge, and disappear on the other side. He leaped from the porch, and started to run down the garden. But his enemy, the gout, gave him a warning twinge, and he was quickly outdistanced by Mr. Peyton, who sped onward, with several negroes at his heels.

The party continued down the garden until they reached the hedge; then they ran to the right for a short distance, scurried through an arched opening in the green box, and thus reached the outskirts of the pine woods. Next they began to search through the trees. But not a sight of the fugitives could they obtain. After they had tramped over the whole woods, which covered about forty acres, they emerged into open fields. Not a trace of the runaways! They went back and made a fresh search among the pines; they sent negroes in every direction; yet the result was the same. When Mr. Peyton returned, very hot and disgusted, to his usually quiet study he found Charles Jason lying on the sofa in an agony of gout. Several of the children were near him.

“Oh, papa, I hope you did not catch them,” cried one of the latter. She was the little girl who had pulled Waggie from George’s pocket.

Mr. Peyton laughed, in spite of himself.

“Have you fallen in love with the boy who sang, Laura?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eye.

“No,” said Miss Laura, indignantly, “but Mr. Jason says they were spies—and spies are always hung—and I wouldn’t like to see that nice dog hung.”

The father burst into a peal of merriment.

“Don’t worry,” he said; “I reckon the dog would be pardoned—on the ground that he was led astray by others older than himself. Anyway, the rascals have gotten away as completely as if they had disappeared from the face of the earth.”

Jason groaned. Whether the sound was caused by pain, or disappointment at the escape of the spies, or both, it would have been hard to tell. When he was taken to his home, not until the next day, he vowed he would never more chase anything, be it even a chicken.

And where were the missing man, boy, and dog? Much nearer to the Peyton house than any of its inmates fancied. When Watson and George ran down the garden their only idea was to get as far off from the house as possible, although they believed that they were pretty sure to be captured in the end. Their pistols were still useless; they did not know the geography of the neighborhood; there were enemies everywhere. But after they squeezed through the hedge, they found in front of them, between the box and the edge of the woods, a little patch of muddy, uncultivated land, devoted to the refuse of a farm. A trash heap, a broken plough, empty boxes, barrels, broken china, and other useless things betokened a sort of rustic junk-shop—a receptacle for objects which had seen their best days.

Among this collection, the quick eye of Watson caught sight of a large molasses hogshead, now empty and with its open end turned upwards. He pulled George by the sleeve, pointed to the hogshead, and then looked at the hedge, as he said, breathlessly: “This is big enough to hold us both; jump in—the hedge is so high they can’t see us from the house!”

There was no chance to say more. In a twinkling the two had vaulted into the huge barrel, and were fairly squatting at the bottom. Above them was the open sky and the warm sun. Any pursuer who chose to stand on tiptoe and look in would have been rewarded for his pains. But Watson calculated that no one would think of the hogshead for the very reason that it stood out so prominently amid all the trash of this dumping ground. No one, in fact, gave a thought to the spot; it suggested nothing in the way of a hiding-place. Once a negro who had joined the hunt brushed by the hogshead, much to the terror of its occupants, but he gave it no heed. A few minutes later Mr. Peyton stopped within a few feet of it, to speak to his white overseer.

“We have searched the wood thoroughly,” said the overseer, “but they are gone—that’s sure.”

“Well, they have gotten out of the place,” observed the master. “But they won’t get many miles away. I want you to take the sorrel mare and spread the alarm through the neighborhood.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hardly had Mr. Peyton and his overseer hurried away before Waggie indulged in a little yelp, to ease his own feelings. He found things rather cramped at the bottom of the hogshead, to which he had been transferred from George’s pocket; he longed to have more leeway for his tiny legs.

“If you had given that bark a minute ago,” muttered George, “you would have betrayed us, Master Waggie.”

“Oh! oh! oh!” whispered Watson; “I am so cramped and stiff I don’t know what will become of me. This is the most painful experience of the war.”

There would have been something amusing in the position of the hiders if it had seemed less dangerous. Watson was now sitting with legs crossed, in tailor fashion; on his lap was George; and upon George’s knee jumped Waggie.

“You’re getting tired too soon,” said George. “We will be here some time yet.”

He was quite right, for it was not until dusk that they dared leave their curious refuge. Sometimes they stood up, when they got absolutely desperate, and had it not been that the tall hedge protected him, the head of Watson would assuredly have been seen from the Peyton mansion. At last they cautiously abandoned the hogshead, and crept into the pines in front of them. When it was pitch dark the fugitives pushed forward in a northwestwardly direction, until they reached a log cabin, at a distance of about four miles from their point of departure. Within the place a light was cheerily burning.

“Shall we knock at the door?” asked Watson, in some doubt.

“I’m very hungry,” laughed George. “I think I could risk knocking anywhere—if I could only get something to eat.”

“Well, we might as well be hung for sheep as lambs,” observed Watson. “Let us try it.”

He had begun to think that it was only the question of a few hours before he and George would be in the hands of the enemy.

They knocked at the door. It was half opened by a long, lanky man, with a scraggy chin-beard, who looked like the customary pictures of “Uncle Sam.”

“What is it?” he asked the travelers. There was a sound of voices within.

Was it prudent to play the blind man once again? Or had this fellow heard of the excitement at the Peyton mansion? Watson bethought himself of a method of finding out whether or not he should be endowed with sight.

“Are we anywhere near Squire Peyton’s?” he demanded.

“’Bout four miles off, or five miles by the road along the creek,” said this Southern “Uncle Sam.”

“Do you know if he’s living at his place now?”

“He was there three days ago, whan I driv over ta sell him some shotes,” returned “Uncle Sam.” “Reckon he must be there still.”

“Humph!” thought Watson; “this fellow hasn’t heard anything about the Peyton fracas. I’ll lose my sight once again.”

He clutched George’s hand in a helpless fashion, and poured forth a tale of woe. He was blind and poor, he said; he and his nephew (meaning George) were in need of food and shelter.

“I’ll sing for you,” said George.

“Tarnation pumpkins,” cried Uncle Sam; “I hate squalin’. But come in. I never shut my door on anybody.”

He opened the door the whole way. The two Northerners and the dog walked into the dazzling light made by a great wood-fire—and confronted five Confederate soldiers and an officer who were toasting their feet at the hearth! They all glanced at the newcomers, who dearly regretted, when too late, that they had entered. The officer stared first at Watson and then at George with the air of a man who is searching for some one. Uncle Sam introduced them to the party in a manner more vigorous than polite.

“Here’s a couple o’ beggars,” he said. “Ma, get ’em somethin’ to eat!”

“Ma,” who was his wife, came bustling out of the second room, or kitchen, of the cabin. She was red in the face, and of generous proportions.

“Look here, pop,” she cried, “do you expect me to cook for a hotel? I’ve just been feedin’ these soldiers, and now you want me to get victuals for beggars.”

When the plump hostess saw the blind man, the boy and the dog, her face softened. She went back to the kitchen, and soon returned with some coarse but highly acceptable food, which was gratefully eaten by George and Watson.

“Do you two tramp through the country together?” asked the officer. He was addressed by his men as Captain Harris. Every line and feature of his clean-shaven face denoted shrewdness.

“Yes,” answered Watson. “My nephew sings—the dog has some tricks—we make a little money—even in war time.” He would put the best face possible on this trying situation.

“You have no home?” went on the officer, in a sympathetic voice.

“None.”

“Where did you come from before you took to begging?”

Watson hesitated for a second. Then he said: “Lynchburg, Virginia.” It was the only place he could think of at that moment, and it seemed far enough off to be safe.

“I spent three weeks in Lynchburg last year,” said Captain Harris. “What part of the town did you live in?”

This time George came to the rescue. “On Main Street,” he answered. He had known a boy in Cincinnati whose mother had once resided in Lynchburg, and he had heard the lad speak of a Main Street in that town.

“On Main Street,” repeated the Captain. Was the look that passed quickly across his face one of surprise or disappointment?

“Yes, on Main Street,” asserted George. He felt very sure of himself now.

“How near were you to the Sorrel Horse Hotel?” asked the Captain, after a brief pause.

“About two streets away, eh George?” said Watson. He had, very naturally, never heard of the Sorrel Horse, and he knew nothing of Lynchburg, but it would be fatal to show any ignorance on the subject.

“Yes, just about two streets away,” agreed the boy.

The men were all sitting near the blazing fire. Suddenly Captain Harris, without saying a word, lifted his right arm and sent his fist flying towards the face of Watson, who sat near him. With an exclamation of anger Watson jumped to his feet, just in time to avoid the blow.

“What do you mean?” he cried, as he glared at his antagonist.

The Captain smiled. He did not seem at all pugnacious now.

“I mean,” he answered, “that I have proved my suspicions to be true. I thought you were not blind—and I find that you still have enough sight left to see a blow when it is coming to you!”

Watson could cheerfully have whipped himself for his blunder.

“Further,” went on the officer, in a politely taunting tone that was very provoking, “I find that neither you nor the boy ever lived in Lynchburg, for the simple reason that there is no Sorrel Horse Hotel in that place, and there never was!”

How nicely had he planned this little trap! And how foolish the two fugitives felt.

“And now, my dear beggars,” went on the Captain, in the same ironical vein, “allow me to say that I don’t believe you are beggars at all. I strongly suspect that you are members of this engine-stealing expedition which has come to grief. This afternoon I was sent out from Chattanooga, among others, to scour the country, and it will be my duty to march you there to-morrow morning.”

There was a pause painful in its intensity.

“Have either of you got anything to say?” demanded the Captain.

“We admit nothing!” said Watson.

“I’m not surprised,” answered the Captain. “Your offense is a hanging one. But you were a plucky lot—that’s certain.”