Poynter and Fyffe rode together, as they struck into a rapid lope along the soft, loamy road, but not until quite clear of the neighborhood, did either of them speak.
"Wal, we've sp'ilt the fun o' them hounds ter-morrer, 'tany rate," chuckled Fyffe.
"Yes, but how did it all come about?" queried Poynter, who did not appear very much at ease, when we consider what he had escaped.
"Wal, in co'se we wasn't a-goin' to see a fri'nd jerked up thet a-way, 'thout helpin' 'im. So's soon as I see'd how it war gwine to work, I sent Sant Maltby to let the cap'n know, an' whar I'd meet 'em to 'xplain, like. Then we crawled up, an' tuck the guard, but poor Sant got throwed clean in his tracks. The rest you know."
"Who were the men you took prisoners?"
"Thar's one on 'em you'll be glad to see—Jon'than Green."
"Ha!" exclaimed Poynter; "the lying scoundrel! But, Jack, my friend, do you know you've made a mistake?"
"How so?"
"I am no counterfeiter—never was."
"Thunder, you say!" ejaculated Fyffe.