Soon we came to the cotton seed house and looked it over from the outside. It was a four-square building, each side having a door. All the doors but one were locked. That one, when pushed against, tottered over. We climbed in over the heavy sacks, seemingly full of cement, with which the unlocked door had been propped to. It also was unhinged.
It was dark inside. There were no windows.
We struck matches and explored. We found articles of heavier hardware scattered and piled about, some sacks of guano, and about a dozen wired bales of hay.
"I thought this was a cotton seed mill," commented Bud, "because I saw so many niggers working around it, when I passed by, the other time."
"Well, and what is it, then?"
"Evidently a warehouse—where they store heavier articles of hardware."
"What are you going to do?"
"Twist the wires off a couple of these bales of hay, use it for bedding, and have a good sleep anyhow."
"But—suppose we're caught in here?"
"No chance. It's Sunday morning, no one will be here to work to-day, and we'll be let alone."