The rider in his haste had overlooked the men in the road. He dashed through the wide opening in the fence, left by the militiamen, took the ditch by the roadside at a leap, wakened the sleeping driver on the wagon with a roar, and himself leaped upon the box and began turning the horses.
“What do you think he’s doing?” asked Cooke.
“He’s in a hurry to get back to mother’s cooking,” replied Ardmore. “He’s seen Miss Dangerfield and learned that war is at hand, and he’s going to get his clothes out of danger. Lordy! listen to him slashing the mules!”
“But you don’t think——”
The wagon had swung round, and already was in rapid flight. Collins howled in glee.
“Come on! We can’t miss a show like this!”
“Leave the horses then! There’s a hill there that will break his neck. We’d better stop him if we can!” cried Cooke, dismounting.
They threw their reins to the driver of the wagon, who had been brushed from his seat by the impatient adjutant-general, and was chanting weirdly to himself at the roadside.
The wagon, piled high with trunks and boxes, was dashing forward, Gillingwater belabouring the mules furiously, and, hearing the shouts of strange pursuers, yelling at the team in a voice shrill with fear.
“Come on, boys!” shouted Ardmore, thoroughly aroused, “catch the spy and traitor!”