“Dunno.”
“How much powder have you got on board?”
“Dunno.”
“I don’t suppose you even know your own name, you little idiot!” cried the soldier. “The boy hasn’t got good sense,” he said, turning to his friend.
“You were never more mistaken in your life,” answered his friend. “He’s only playing a game. I know something about faces—and this boy here has lots of sense.”
George called Waggie, put the animal in his pocket, and walked to the door of the little station without taking any notice of this compliment to his sagacity. Under the circumstances he should have preferred the deepest insult. He felt that a long detention at Adairsville would be dangerous, perhaps fatal.
Opening the door, the boy entered the station. It comprised a cheerless waiting-room, with a stove, bench and water-cooler for furniture, and a little ticket office at one end. The ticket office was occupied by the station-agent, who was near the keyboard of the telegraph wire; otherwise the interior of the building was empty.
“Heard anything from the passenger yet?” asked George, as he walked unconcernedly into the ticket office.
“Just wait a second,” said the man, his right hand playing on the board; “I’m telegraphing up the line to Calhoun to find out where she is. The wires aren’t working to the south, somehow, but they’re all right to the north.”
Click, click, went the instrument. George returned leisurely to the doorway of the waiting-room. He was just in time to hear the young soldier say to his friend: “If these fellows try to get away from here, just let ’em go. I’ll send a telegram up the road giving warning that they are coming, and should be stopped as a suspicious party. If they don’t find themselves in hot water by the time they get to Dalton I’m a bigger fool than I think I am.”