There was no hurry to get off. Paul was too wise a commander to spoil the pleasure of his comrades by unseemly haste, with so much time before them.
About nine o'clock the command started forth, with Bluff's drum beating time, and the inspiring notes of the bugle lending vigor to their eager feet. By noon some of those who had seemed most chipper at the beginning of the day's tramp were limping more or less, though still full of grit, and a determination not to lag behind.
The country was getting very wild now. Occasionally they began to have glimpses of the upper Bushkill, when the forest opened more or
less. Later on the road was likely to skirt the river, they understood, when conditions would be prime for possibly a swim, or some fishing, which latter, they imagined must be good so far away from town.
They were still taking it easy after eating a lunch that possibly cleaned up every scrap of the goodies prepared by fond mothers and sisters; when Paul, who was sitting talking to Jack, noticed a vehicle coming swiftly along the road.
Whoever occupied the rig seemed to be in somewhat of a hurry, for he was every now and then whipping the horse, which showed signs of fatigue, as though it had come quite some ways.
As the man drove past he raised his head to look with a frown in the direction of the scout encampment. Paul did not like his appearance at all. Indeed, he was of the opinion that the man might even have stolen the rig somewhere; for he acted as though anxious to get away.
But his bewilderment increased when he saw Joe Clausin suddenly jump to his feet and stare after the departing stranger, his face turning very white.
"Oh! it's him, it's him!" Paul plainly heard him exclaim.