“If you want to avoid entanglements of every kind,” proceeded the Porcupine, smoothing his stiff crest, “take warning now by what I’m going to tell you. Go quickly now and hide your barge somewhere along the bank; then return, close up your house, put out your light and go quietly to bed. In that way you’ll be sure to do no wrong.”
The man seemed greatly struck by this advice and nodded his head as though it pleased him. Nat gathered up his reins and was about to give the word when a thought struck him.
“Did you by any chance,” asked he of the mechanic, “hear the name of the boy who engaged your boat?”
“I did,” was the answer. “A large man was speaking in a loud tone of voice as they rode up to the ferry landing and he called him Prentiss.”
“Thank you,” said Nat, and without further words the pair turned and put their mounts at a hard gallop down the road.
“I think I could name what use is to be made of the barge,” said the dwarf after a long pause.
“And I,” replied Nat. “If the Virginian members of Congress are taken, they will be put into it, sculled down the river and placed upon the British vessel which is, no doubt, at anchor there for the purpose.”
“And I hardly think she’d wait to take on any further cargo,” remarked the Porcupine, wisely. “They’d up sail, and away for England, a quick trial, a tall scaffold and a short rope.”
“You are pretty near the truth,” replied the young mountaineer, grimly. “I’m afraid the British ministers would not give the prisoners much of a chance for their lives.”
The gusts of warm wind had been growing heavier. And now the rain began to fall in torrents. The two riders bent their heads, doggedly and in silence. Before the storm began objects had been made out with the utmost difficulty; now the darkness grew all but impenetrable; lakes and rivulets formed in the road; the horses were given their heads, as being the safer way, and stumbling, snorting and shaking the streaming rain from their manes, they pressed onward.