I did not know this masonic pass-word. On riding out, I had not thought of such a thing, and I began to anticipate some trouble. I resolved, however, to make trial of the sentry.
“We haven’t got the countersign. ’Tis I, Quackenboss. I am—”
I announced my name and rank.
“Don’t care for all that!” was the somewhat surly rejoinder; “can’t pass ’ithout the countersign.”
“Yer durned fool! it’s yur captin,” cried Rube, in a peevish tone.
“Maybe,” replied the imperturbable sentry; “can’t let him pass ’ithout countersign.”
I now saw that we were in a real dilemma.
“Send for the corporal of the guard, or either of the lieutenants,” I suggested, thinking that that might be the shortest way to get over the difficulty.
“Hain’t got nobody to send,” came the gruff voice of Quackenboss from out the darkness.
“I’ll go!” promptly answered Garey—the big trapper thinking, in his innocence, there could be no reason why he should not carry the message to quarters—and as he spoke, he made a step or two forward in the direction of the sentinel.