“They’re looking for escaped prisoners,” O’Malley whispered in Stan’s ear.
Three burly soldiers walked over to the cart and began thrusting their bayonets into the hay. Stan stiffened. If he was stabbed he meant to make no outcry. He felt the cold steel move across his body a few inches from his chest. It slipped back, then stabbed again. Stan was glad the bed of the cart had a ten-inch high board around it.
After more shouting and poking the driver got back on his seat and the cart moved forward.
“Boy,” Stan muttered. “That was a close shave.”
“I got a small cut,” Sim said.
“And you didn’t yell?” O’Malley spoke admiringly.
“It would have been the end for us if I had yelled,” Sim answered.
The cart continued to jog along slowly. Long shadows fell across the road and the cart passed many farmers returning from the fields.
“I could eat a boiled dog,” O’Malley grumbled.
“We’ll eat later,” Sim assured him.