"Who are you, and what do you want?" demanded the farmer. The dog continued to bark, but he did not approach them.
"We're on our way to Wartrace," answered Wilson, "and we're lost in the storm. Can you give us a place to sleep?"
"Are you soldiers?"
Wilson paused a moment, then answered, "No."
"Come on up here then, and let's look at ye," answered the farmer. "Here,
Shep, shut up that barking! Come here!"
They saw the dog curl up at its master's feet, and they went forward.
"How far are we from Wartrace?" asked Wilson, as they approached the door.
"'Bout two miles," answered the farmer. "Wait there, and I'll take a look at ye." He reached to one side and took a lamp. Then, shielding his eyes from the light, he held it up and glanced from one to the other. The dog came toward them, whining and growling. "Shut up, Shep. All right—come on in."
They entered the shanty. In one corner of the room a dilapidated stove was glowing; in another corner there was a bed, made of rough boards, with a pile of dirty bedding on the straw. A table and one chair completed the furniture. Near the door some farm implements were stacked. A rusty, battered pan on the floor caught the water that dripped in through a leak in the roof.
Now, for the first time, the three adventurers had an opportunity of seeing each other. Tom, as he took off his cape and water-soaked coat, glanced first at Wilson, then at Shadrack. Wilson was a tall man, nearly forty, with a serious face. His mouth was stern, and he had sharp gray eyes. Shadrack was short and plump. He was still blowing and puffing from his exertions in the mud, but he laughed as he took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. He had, in truth, been eating mud, for his face was streaked with it. "Had my mouth open when I fell," he explained.