“So I supposed,” continued Mark. “And you know on what nights Marcy Gray goes to his mother’s house after grub, don’t you? I thought so. Well, if you will let us know when he expects to go there again it will be money in your pocket.”
“How much money?” asked Buffum; and his tone and manner encouraged the boys to believe that, if sufficient inducement were held out, he might be depended on to supply the desired information. He picked up a twig that lay near him, and broke it in pieces with fingers that trembled visibly.
“You can set your own price,” replied Mark. “And bear in mind that you will not run the slightest risk. Who is going to suspect you if you take pains to remain in camp on the night Marcy is captured? Now will you go down and talk to Beardsley about it?”
“You’re sure you didn’t see nary soldier while you was comin’ up here?” said the man doubtfully.
“We didn’t, and neither did we hear of any. You don’t want to follow the road, for you will save time and distance by going through the woods. You will find Beardsley in the field north of where his house used to stand. You’ll go, won’t you?”
Buffum said he would think about it, and the boys rode away, satisfied that he would start as soon as they were out of sight.
“So far so good, with one exception,” said Tom, as they rode out of the field into the road. “We talked too much, and Beardsley told us particularly to keep still.”
“I don’t care if he did,” answered Mark spitefully. “This is my plan, and if it works I want, and mean to have, the honor of it. I hope it will get to Marcy’s ears, for when he is in the army I want him to know that I put him there.”
“He’ll know it,” said Tom with a laugh. “Buffum’s wife was in the cabin, and heard every word we said.”
While Tom and Mark were spending their time in this congenial way, Marcy Gray and his fellow-refugees were finding what little enjoyment they could in acting as camp-keepers, or visiting their friends and relatives in the settlement. Just now there was little scouting done by either side. The Confederates at Williamston had lost about as many men as they could afford to lose in skirmishes with the Federals, who were always strong enough to drive them and to take a few prisoners besides, and had grown weary of searching for a camp of refugees which they began to believe was a myth.