“March!” called Cooke, dropping behind; and thus the two came in a few minutes to the engine, the cars, and the caboose. From the locomotive a slight smoke still trailed hazily upward.
Thomas Ardmore, coatless and hatless, sat on the caboose steps writing messages on a broad pad, while a telegraph instrument clicked busily within. One of his men had qualified as operator, and a pile of messages at his elbow testified to Ardmore’s industry. Ardmore clutched in his left hand a message recently caught from the wire, which he re-read from time to time with increasing satisfaction. It had been sent from Ardsley and ran:
I shall ride to-night on the road that leads south beyond the red bungalow, and on the bridle-path that climbs the ridge on the west, called Sunset Trail. A certain English gentleman will accompany me. It will be perfectly agreeable to me to come back alone.
G. D.
Ardmore was still writing when Cooke stood beneath him under the caboose platform.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Ardmore, but this is our first prisoner.”
Ardmore signed a despatch, and then looked up and took the pipe from his mouth. Collins lifted his hat politely.
“Ah, Mr. Ardmore, you see I have taken advantage of your exceedingly kind invitation to look you up in North Carolina.”
“He was looking for you very hard when I found him, Mr. Ardmore,” interposed Cooke.
“Your appearance delights me,” said Ardmore, extending his hand to the reporter. “It was nice of you to walk out here to find me. Wouldn’t they put you up at the house?”