“How are we to send, Major?” asked Clayley, looking on the major’s proposition as ridiculous under the circumstances. “Have you a pigeon in your pocket?”
“Why?—how? There’s Hercules runs like a hare; stick one of your fellows in the saddle, and I’ll warrant him to camp in an hour.”
“You are right, Major,” said I, catching at the major’s proposal; “thank you for the thought. If he could only pass that point in the woods! I hate it, but it is our only chance.”
The last sentence I muttered to myself.
“Why do you hate it, Captain?” inquired the major, who had overheard me.
“You might not understand my reasons, Major.”
I was thinking upon the disgrace of being trapped as I was, and on my first scout, too.
“Who will volunteer to ride an express to camp?” I inquired, addressing the men.
Twenty of them leaped out simultaneously.
“Which of you remembers the course, that you could follow it in a gallop?” I asked.