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.”