Yes, they had been there at the house, and in it and all over it, so Robinson said, looking for the boys who had escaped by the rear door. They might return at any moment, but he (Robinson) would do the best he could for them. He couldn’t fight the mob, as he would like to, but perhaps he could keep the boys concealed.
“What do you think they would do with us if they found us?” inquired Stanley.
Robinson couldn’t say for certain, but the men who came to his house were angry enough to do almost anything. They were all armed, and some of them carried ropes in their hands. This proved that their threat to hang the young soldiers was no idle one.
The first thing Robinson did was to look at Stanley’s wound. A bullet had plowed a furrow through the back of his leg just below his knee, and although the artery had not been cut and the bone was uninjured, everybody saw at a glance that it was impossible for him to go any farther. Hopkins inquired where he could find a surgeon, but the negro wouldn’t tell him, declaring that if he set out in search of one he would never see his friends again.
While Hopkins was trying to make up his mind what he ought to do, he suddenly became aware that there was something the matter with himself. One of his boots seemed to be growing tighter, and he limped painfully when he tried to walk across the floor.
“I declare, I believe I have sprained my ankle,” said he; and an examination proved that he had. His ankle was badly swollen and inflamed, and after he took his boot off he could not bear the weight of his foot upon the floor.
“I reckon you’ns has got to put up at my hotel dis night, bofe of you,” said Robinson. “You can’t go no furder, dat’s sho’.”
“Perhaps you had better let us lie out in the woods,” said Hopkins. “If the strikers should return and find us here, they might do you some injury.”
The negro said he didn’t care for that. Soldiers had more than once put themselves in danger for him, and it was a pity if he couldn’t do something for them. At any rate he would take the risk. He bustled about at a lively rate while he was talking, and in five minutes more the disabled boys had been carried up the ladder that led to the loft and stored away there on some hay that had been provided for them. After that Stanley’s leg was dressed with cold coffee, which Robinson declared to be the best thing in the world for gunshot wounds. Hopkins’s ankle was bound up in cloths wet with hot water, a plain but bountiful supper was served up to them, and they were left to their meditations. Of course they did not sleep much, for they couldn’t. They suffered a good deal of pain, but not a word of complaint was heard from either of them. Hopkins acted as nurse during the night, and shortly after daylight sunk into an uneasy slumber, from which he was aroused by a gentle push from Stanley, who shook his finger at him to keep him quiet.
“They’ve come,” whispered his companion.