“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?”