Once hidden in the carts, none of the party dared to speak excepting in the faintest of whispers. All waited patiently for about half an hour, when several Russian cart-drivers and hostlers appeared, bringing with them a number of horses. The men were talking in a boisterous manner, and were evidently dissatisfied with the task before them.
“We could wait until daylight just as well,” grumbled one. “To drive out in such a snowstorm and on such a road is not pleasant.”
“True, Pasof but orders are orders,” came from a second. “And the sooner we arrive at Chic-yang the better for us. So hurry along.”
The horses were soon hooked fast to the carts, and then, mounting the seats, the drivers started up their teams with loud cracks of their whips and curses long and deep.
At the first jounce over the rough pavements Gilbert felt that the ride was to be anything but pleasant. But that shaking up was as nothing to what followed, and he had to brace himself between the boxes with all his strength to prevent some bones from being crushed. Up and down went the cart, in and out of holes and ruts, the snow sifting in at times and down the young American’s neck, in spite of the fact that he had buttoned his coat tightly around him. It was intensely cold, and soon his feet seemed to be more than half-frozen.
“How much of this have we got to stand?” he whispered to his companion.
“Not much—soon we leave city we leave cart,” was Jiru Siko’s answer. He was suffering as much as Gilbert, but uttered no complaint.
A moment later the cart went into a hole with a jounce that threatened to break an axle. Part of the load began to slip back, and in alarm the driver leaped down to readjust it.
The movement brought the man close to Gilbert’s hiding-place, and as the end of the tarpaulin was raised the ex-lieutenant felt almost certain that he would be discovered.
But the discovery did not come, and having shoved two of the cases back into place, and readjusted several ropes which bound them, the driver moved on once more.