“Look here,” said Watson, calling a halt. “There’s no use in our trying to go further to-night. It’s too dark to make any sort of time. And we are far enough away now from Jasper to avoid any danger of pursuit—even if our amiable friend Mr. Hare should inform the Vigilants.”
“Don’t be afraid of that,” said Macgreggor and George in the same breath. Hare was not likely to relate a joke so much at his own expense as their clever escape had proved. Even if he did, they reasoned, the chances of capture were now rather slim, whatever they might have been when the three fugitives were nearer Jasper.
“Then let us get a few hours’ sleep in this cabin,” urged Watson. “Some negro probably lives here—and we can tell him our usual Kentucky story. Give the door a pound, George, and wake him up.”
George used first his hands and then his boots on the door, in a vain effort to make some one hear. He took Waggie out of his pocket, and the shrill little barks of the dog added to the noise as he jumped around his master’s feet.
“Let’s break the door down,” urged Macgreggor. “The seven sleepers must live here. We might pound all night and not get in.”
With one accord the three threw themselves vigorously against the door. They expected to meet with some resistance, due to a bolt or two; but, instead of that, the door flew open so suddenly that they were precipitated into the cabin, and lay sprawling on the ground. It had been latched but neither locked nor bolted.
“We were too smart that time,” growled Watson, as the three picked themselves up, to the great excitement of Waggie. “The place must be deserted. So much the better for us. We can get a little sleep without having to go into explanations.”
He drew from inside his greatcoat, with much care, three or four matches. By lighting, first one and then the others, he was able to grope around until he found the hearth of the cabin. Cold ashes marked the remains of a fire long since extinguished. His foot struck against something which proved to be a small piece of dry pine-wood. With the flame from his last match Watson succeeded in lighting this remnant of kindling. He carefully nursed the new flame until the stick blazed forth like a torch. Then the travelers had a chance to examine the one room which formed the whole interior of the lonely place. The cabin was deserted. It contained not a bit of furniture; nothing, indeed, save bare walls of logs, and rude mortar, and a clean pine floor.
“This palace can’t be renting at a very high price,” remarked Macgreggor, sarcastically.
“It will do us well enough for a few hours’ sleep,” said George.