“Why didn't we fetch old Johnson?” whispered aunt Corinne, after they slid down the tree stump.
“'Cause Boswell'd been at his heels, and the whole camp'd been in a fight,” replied Bobaday. “Old Johnson was under our wagon; I don't know where Bos was. I was careful not to wake him.”
Through gaps in foliage and undergrowth they saw many an individual part of the general camp; the wagon-cover in some cases being as dun as the hide of an elephant. When a curtain was dropped over the front opening of the wagon, Bobaday and Corinne knew that women and children were sleeping within on their chattels. Here a tent was made of sheets and stretched down with the branch of an overhanging tree for a ridge-pole; and there horse-blankets were made into a canopy and supported by upright poles. Within such covers men were asleep, having sacks or comforters for bedding.
On a few wagon tongues, or stretched easily before fires, men lingered, talking in steady, monotonous voices as if telling stories, or in indifferent tones as if tempting each other to trades.
The rain had entirely ceased, though the spongy wet wood sod was not pleasant to walk upon. “I guess,” said-aunt Corinne, “we'd better go back.”
“Well, we've seen consider'ble,” assented her nephew. “I guess we'd better.”
So he faced about. But quite near them arose the piercing scream of a child in mortal fear.
CHAPTER XI. THE DARKENED WAGON.
Aunt Corinne and her nephew felt pierced by the cry. Her hands gripped his jacket with a shock. Robert Day turning took hold of his aunt's wrist to pinch her silent, but his efforts were too zealous and turned her fright to indignation.