The General was right. The young scout ran into a most daring and successful British enterprise on the twentieth of January. The snow had been swept away in a warm rain and the ground had frozen bare, or it would not have been possible. Jack had got to a strip of woods in a lonely bit of country near the British lines and was climbing a tall tree to take observations when he saw a movement on the ground beneath him. He stopped and quickly discovered that the tree was surrounded by British soldiers. One of them, who stood with a raised rifle, called to him:
"Irons, I will trouble you to drop your pistols and come down at once."
Jack saw that he had run into an ambush. He dropped his pistols and came down. He had disregarded the warning of the General. He should have been looking out for an ambush. A squad of five men stood about him with rifles in hand. Among them was Lionel Clarke, his right sleeve empty.
"We've got you at last--you damned rebel!" said Clarke.
"I suppose you need some one to swear at," Jack answered.
"And to shoot at," Clarke suggested.
"I thought that you would not care for another match with me," the young scout remarked as they began to move away.
"Hereafter you will be treated like a rebel and not like a gentleman," Clarke answered.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that you will be standing, blindfolded against a wall."