“The Chickamauga,” said Watson, under his breath. “So that’s the name of the river, eh?”
There was evidently some heated discussion going on among the unseen pursuers. At length one of them cried: “Well, comrades, as there’s not one of us who wants to swim over the river in its present state, and as the fools may even be drowned by this time, I move we go home. The whole countryside will be on the lookout for the rest of the engine thieves by to-morrow—and they won’t escape us before then.”
“Nonsense,” interrupted a voice, “don’t you know night’s just the time which they will take for escape?”
“Are you ready, then, to swim across the Chickamauga?”
“No.”
“Then go home, and don’t talk nonsense! To-morrow, when the river is less angry, we will be up by dawn—and then for a good hunt!”
Apparently the advice of the last speaker was considered wise, for the men left the river bank. At last their voices could be no longer heard in the distance. The shades of twilight began to fall, and the rain ceased. Then Watson and his companion crawled cautiously from behind the boulder. They were two as dilapidated creatures as ever drew breath under a southern sky. With soaking shirts and trousers, and without coats, vests, or shoes, they looked the picture of destitution. And their feelings! They were hungry, dispirited, exhausted. All the pleasure seemed to have gone out of life.
“We can’t stay in this charming spot all night,” said Watson, sarcastically.
“I suppose a rock is as good as anything else we can find,” answered the boy gloomily. “Poor Waggie! Why did I try to drag him across the river?”
“Poor little midget,” said Watson. “I’ll never forget the appealing look in his eyes as he went sailing past me.”