“Whisht, man, whisht,” said Hope, “it’s not safe to be talking of what’s here.”
He winked at the soldier as he spoke—a sly, humorous wink—a wink which hinted at a good joke to come. The dragoon, a fat, good-natured man’, grinned in reply.
“I won’t split on you, you young thieves. I’ve taken my share of loot before this, and I expect some pickings out of the croppies’ houses before I’ve done. I won’t cry halvers on you. What’s yours is yours. But tell us what it is.”
“It’s cases of cartridges,” said Hope, winking again. “We’re taking them to the general in command of the rebel army, so don’t be interfering with us or maybe they’ll hold a courtmartial on you.”
The fat dragoon laughed. The idea of packing up ammunition for the croppies in the temporary barrack of a squadron of dragoons, and using His Majesty’s straw to stuff the sacks, appealed to him as extremely comic. Hope and Neal shouldered their bundles and left the yard.
“I’m afraid,” said Hope, “that we can’t store these in Matier’s house. When Barber learns that the cases are gone he’ll search high and low for them, and Matier’s will be just one of the places he’ll look sooner or later. Are you good for a tramp, Neal, with that load on your back?”
“Yes,” said Neal, “I’ll carry mine for miles if you like.”
“Then,” said Hope-, “we’ll just look in at Matier’s as we pass, and if the coast’s clear I’ll leave word where we’re going. I know a snug place on the side of the Cave Hill where we can lie for the night. To-morrow you can join your uncle at Donegore.”
There were no soldiers round the inn when they reached it. Felix Matier and Donald Ward were both out. Hope left his message with Peg Macllrea, who was sanding the parlour.
“So you’re going to sleep out the night on the Cave Hill?” she said to Neal. “That’ll be queer and good for your clouted head I’m thinkin’.”