“It’s like walking on carpet,” observed Cooke, picking up a feathered chapeau. “I didn’t know there were so many clothes in all the world.”
They abandoned the idea of further pursuit on reaching a trunk standing on end, from which a uniform dress-coat drooped sadly.
“This is not our trouble; it’s his trouble. I guess he’s struck a smoother road down there. We’d better go back,” said Cooke.
“Whom the gods would destroy they first dress in glad rags,” piped Collins.
They sat down and laughed until the negro approached warily with the horses.
“He’s lost his raiment, but saved his life,” sputtered Collins, climbing into his saddle.
“He’s lost more than that,” remarked Ardmore, and his flushed countenance, noted by the others as he lighted a cigarette, was cheerfuller than they had ever seen it before.
In a moment they had climbed the hill and were in hot pursuit of the adjutant-general’s abandoned army.
CHAPTER XVII.
ON THE ROAD TO TURNER’S.
“Who goes there?”