"What's—what's that?" he gasped.
"I merely asked, have you a pin?" was the even answer, as Norton touched the right lapel of his coat with his right hand.
The farmer hesitated a moment, and then slowly ran three trembling fingers of his left hand over the left lapel of his coat, replying:
"I'm afraid not."
He looked at Norton a moment and turned pale. He had been given and had returned the signs of the Klan. It might have been an accident. The rugged face was a study of eager intensity as he put his friend to the test that would tell. He slowly thrust the fingers of his right hand into the right pocket of his trousers, the thumb protruding.
Norton quietly answered in the same way with his left hand.
The farmer looked into the smiling brown eyes of his commander for a moment and his own filled with tears. He sprang forward and grasped the outstretched hand:
"Dan Norton! I said last night to my God that you couldn't be against us! And so I came to ask—oh, why—why've you been foolin' with me?"
The editor tenderly slipped his arm around his old comrade and whispered:
"The cunning of the fox and the courage of the lion now, Mac! It was easy for our boys to die in battle while guns were thundering, fifes screaming, drums beating and the banners waving. You and I have something harder to do—we've got to live—our watchword, 'The cunning of the fox and the courage of the lion!' I've some dangerous work to do pretty soon. The little Scalawag Governor is getting ready for us——"