“Oh! it's YOU, Murphy,” he said with an affected laugh, “and you haven't improved with your stripes.”
The young officer turned his head slightly.
“Attention!”
“One moment more,” said Overstone coming forward. “I have told you that we don't give up any man who seeks our protection. But,” he added with a half-careless, half-contemptuous wave of his hand, and a significant glance at his followers, “we don't prevent you from seeking him. The road is clear; the camp is before you.”
The young officer continued without looking at him. “Forward—in two files—open order. Ma-arch!”
The little troop moved forward, passed Major Overstone at the head of the gully, and spread out on the hillside. The assembled camp, still armed, lounging out of ambush here and there, ironically made way for them to pass. A few moments of this farcical quest, and a glance at the impenetrably wooded heights around, apparently satisfied the young officer, and he turned his files again into the gully. Major Overstone was still lingering there.
“I hope you are satisfied,” he said grimly. He then paused, and in a changed and more hesitating voice added: “I am an older soldier than you, sir, but I am always glad to make the acquaintance of West Point.” He paused and held out his hand.
West Point, still red and rigid, glanced at him with bright clear eyes under light lashes and the peak of a smartly cocked cap, looked coolly at the proffered hand, raised his own to a stiff salute, said, “Good afternoon, sir,” and rode away.
Major Overstone wheeled angrily, but in doing so came sharply upon his coadjutor—the leader of the ambushed party.
“Well, Dawson,” he said impatiently. “Who was it?”