“How do I know but what this would bring the entire swarm of rebels down upon us?” growled Slade. He lifted his cudgel for another blow at the burning brush, when he felt himself shouldered aside; and when he turned he found himself staring into a wide mouthed pistol.
“You will kindly not disturb this fire,” said the young New Englander. “It cost me some little effort to build it, and I’d prefer having it burn.”
Bristling and snarling more like a bad mannered mastiff than ever, Slade regarded the young man.
“All such things as fire are forbidden on the river bank,” said he, rather lamely.
George laughed. “They will have to do something more than forbid, to make me put this one out,” he said.
“I was right, then,” said Slade. “It’s a signal!”
“It is your privilege to guess. And it is also mine to refuse an answer,” smiled the young man.
Though he kept the pistol upon Slade, George noticed that the fire was waning. He began kicking the brush together that it might burn better; particles of snow flew among the light flames and hissed and sputtered.
“How much of the conversation did you overhear at the inn about an hour ago?” asked Slade.
“All of it.”