Hare held up his right hand, and then dropped it listlessly by his side.
“I give in,” he said sullenly. “You’ve got the better of me.” He looked, for all the world, like a whipped cur.
There was not a second to lose. The horsemen were riding up to the house. Watson motioned to the farmer, who walked into the parlor, which was unlighted, closely followed by the soldier. There were sounds without, as of horses being reined in, and of men’s gruff voices. Hare opened the parlor door a few inches, while Watson, safe from observation, stationed himself within a few feet of him, with cocked revolver. “Remember!” he whispered, significantly.
“Is that you, boys?” shouted Hare. “Those three spies I sent word about escaped from here ten minutes ago, stole a boat on the bank, down by the landing, and started to row across the river.”
“They will never reach the other side a night like this,” called out some one.
“What did you let ’em get away from you for?” asked another of the Vigilants.
“How could I help it?” growled the farmer. “They were well armed—and ’twas three men against one.”
“Pah! You’ve brought us out on a wild-goose chase, and on a durned bad night,” came a voice from the wet and darkness.
“Perhaps they’ll drift back to this side of the river, and can be caught,” one Vigilant suggested. But this idea evidently met with little approval. It was plain, from what Watson could hear of the discussion which ensued, that the Vigilants were disgusted. They were ready, indeed, to give up the chase, on the supposition that the three fugitives would either drift down in midstream, or else be capsized and find a watery grave.
“Come, we’ll get home again,” commanded a horseman, who appeared to be the leader. “And no thanks to you, Jake Hare, for making us waste our time.”