"Um, I know; that's all very well," muttered Chance, "but you don't know this fellow Strong. He's as powerful as a bull, and will fight like a wild-cat."
"But he's up against overpowering odds to-night," Merritt rejoined, with regained confidence. "This is the time that Ned Strong, the favored paragon of the navy, is going to get his—and get it good."
"You can bet he is," agreed Chance and Kennell, with clenched teeth.
"I've got a few scores to pay off on my own account," added the latter.
"Well, here are your disguises," said Herr Muller, striking a match and indicating a bundle in one corner of the barn. Presently he produced a pocket flash-lamp, and held it cautiously while Merritt and Chance, two traitors to the United States, invested themselves in the rough-looking garments he had provided. They were complete, even to false whiskers. When they had attired themselves in the tattered clothes and adjusted the remainder of their disguises, two more disreputable-looking specimens of the genus tramp than Merritt and Chance presented could not have been imagined.
"You'll do finely," declared Herr Muller, with deep satisfaction, when the preparations were concluded. "I'd be scared of you myself, if I met you on a dark road," he added, with peculiar humor.
"How about me?" asked Kennell. "That 'Dreadnought Boy,' as they call him, knows me."
"Pshaw! that's so," said Herr Muller. "Well, see here," producing a handkerchief, "tie this over the lower part of your face and you will be well enough disguised."
"I reckon so," agreed Kennell, adopting the suggestion.