“I want to make sure of something.”
Carefully they crept toward the building; but before they reached it there came a low knocking.
“Who’s there?” came the voice of the man who had borne the lanthorn. “Who comes knocking at this hour?”
“Open the door. It is I!”
At once the door reopened; a second and slighter form flitted in, and again it closed.
“Stay here,” whispered George to his friend. “I shall be gone only a short time. Keep a lookout.”
“Very well,” replied Brewster.
George stole away toward the building; it proved to be a log structure, chinked with clay; its one window had been broken, apparently, for some boards were roughly nailed across the opening, and the seams between stuffed with rags. It required but a moment for him to work an opening in one of the seams large enough to enable him to obtain a view of the interior.
There was a low, rudely raftered ceiling through which protruded wisps of rye straw; the room was filled with smoke; there was no chimney to carry it off. The first thing that George heard was a prolonged fit of coughing; he could dimly make out two forms through the blue haze, but not enough to be sure. However, in a manner, his suspicions proved to be correct.
“To think,” said the voice of the man with the lanthorn, “that I should ever be brought to this. Strangled in a hovel not fit for beasts. But I’ll be even with them, or my name is not Camp.”