“But the countersign,” stammered the Russian soldier. “They said it was Mukden.”
“Exactly—just what I said,” went on Gilbert hurriedly. “Stand aside,” and he continued to crowd forward. The next moment he and Ben were past, on a gallop, the guard staring after them blankly.
“Well, of all the bunco games!” murmured Ben, when the alarm was over. “He’s a fine guard, isn’t he?”
“A fine guard—for us, Ben. I hope he doesn’t wake up and fire a shot after us—or tell his superiors.”
No shot came, and soon they felt that they were well outside of the Russian lines. On a distant hillside they saw a row of camp-fires burning and were cautious to give them a wide berth.
All through the wet night they rode at the best speed the horses could command. Both were good steeds,—evidently belonging to officers of the Siberian cavalry, by the trappings displayed. The cloaks were also those of cavalry officers, so both looked as if they belonged to the Russian army.
“Now we have got to look out that some Japanese guard doesn’t shoot us down!” cried Ben, on the way.
“We’re a long way from any Japanese camp, I’m thinking,” was the answer.
At daybreak they came to an isolated Chinese farmhouse. A careful investigation showed that nobody was around but two farm-hands well advanced in years.
“We want some breakfast, and at once,” said Gilbert, to one of the hands. “Give us the best the place affords.”