Gilbert Potter, sitting beside Mark,—the two were mutually drawn towards each other, without knowing or considering why,—had gradually worked himself into a resolution to be cool, and to watch the movements of his presumed rival. More than once, during the afternoon, he had detected Barton's eyes, fixed upon him with a more than accidental interest; looking up now, he met them again, but they were quickly withdrawn, with a shy, uneasy expression, which he could not comprehend. Was it possible that Barton conjectured the carefully hidden secret of his heart? Or had the country gossip been free with his name, in some way, during his absence? Whatever it was, the dearer interests at stake prevented him from dismissing it from his mind. He was preternaturally alert, suspicious, and sensitive.
He was therefore a little startled, when, as they were all rising in obedience to Farmer Hallowell's summons to supper, Barton suddenly took hold of his arm.
“Gilbert,” said he, “we want your name in a list of young men we are getting together, for the protection of our neighborhood. There are suspicions, you know, that Sandy Flash has some friends hereabouts, though nobody seems to know exactly who they are; and our only safety is in clubbing together, to smoke him out and hunt him down, if he ever comes near us. Now, you're a good hunter”—
“Put me down, of course!” Gilbert interrupted, immensely relieved to find how wide his suspicions had fallen from the mark. “That would be a more stirring chase than our last; it is a shame and a disgrace that he is still at large.”
“How many have we now?” asked Mark, who was walking on the other side of Barton.
“Twenty-one, with Gilbert,” the latter replied.
“Well, as Sandy is said to count equal to twenty, we can meet him evenly, and have one to spare,” laughed Mark.
“Has any one here ever seen the fellow?” asked Gilbert. “We ought to know his marks.”
“He's short, thick-set, with a red face, jet-black hair, add heavy whiskers,” said Barton.
“Jet-black hair!” Mark exclaimed; “why, it's red as brick-dust! And I never heard that he wore whiskers.”