That jounce proved the last, and soon after this the cart struck a hard and fairly smooth dirt road, where riding for those in hiding was much easier.
“We out of Port Arthur now,” whispered Jiru Siko. “Leave cart soon.”
“What about the others?”
“They leave, too—all go to old house on road to water.”
After this nothing was said for fully ten minutes. The cart was now moving along at a fair rate of speed, and the driver was puffing away contentedly at a short pipe between his teeth, and paying scant attention to the load behind.
“Now we go,” whispered Jiru Siko, and worked his way noiselessly to the rear of the cart. Gilbert went with him, and in a moment more both dropped into the road. Then, hand in hand, they ran out of sight in the darkness, and the cart rumbled on, the driver never once suspecting that he had been carrying passengers.
The house the Japanese had in mind was a good half mile away. The road lay over a barren field, now covered with several inches of snow.
“It is certainly cold to-night,” said Gilbert, when he felt at liberty to speak. “We’ll have no fun of it when we reach the water front.”
“Cold make Russians stay in by fire,” answered his companion. “No see us—so better for boat.”
“That is true, but—— What does that mean?”