There was no moon, and, old woodsmen though they were, their way seemed to get all mixed up, full of sticks and cans and holes and hillocks. Even in the most open road they were continually stepping on things that snapped or clattered, and they imagined that the whole country around-about must be aroused by the noise!
Faint in the distance, or near at hand, barked dogs of farmyard and town-yard. An owl hooted in an accusing tone, and Pete, Deacon Rogers’ venerable clay-colored horse, from his pasture wheezed at them through the misty blackness.
“What’s that!” exclaimed Hal, huskily, startled; and Ned, too, jumped at the sound.
Had they not been setting out to “hook” melons, they might have been braver. A nagging conscience is a bad escort, especially on a dark night!
They entered the ravine. What a ravine that was! Not very kindly by day, by night it was downright wicked! Every twig thrust up a finger to trap their feet; every branch shot out a hand to slap them in the face. And there was not a single guide-post. Darkness had swallowed all landmarks, and the boys could only guess.
When it seemed that they surely ought to be opposite the proper spot, they climbed the steep slope.
“Hurrah!” cheered Hal, beneath his breath, when they reached the top. “We’ve just struck it! Here’s the poplar we go by!”
“Sh!” hissed Ned.
As they crossed the thirty yards that lay between them and the patch, how the weeds crackled under their tread! At length they arrived at the fence bordering the little field; formerly a fence with sagging, swaying barbed wires betwixt which even the most awkward person ought to slip without touching, but just at present a demon of a fence which left a stinging scratch along Ned’s back, and with a tearing sound clutched Hal by the trousers.